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DAMAGED  GOODS 

[JLes  u4  varies] 
A  Play  in  Three  Acts 

BY 

BRIEUX 

MEMBER    OF   THE    FRENCH    ACADEMY 
TRANSLATED    BY 

JOHN    POLLOCK 

WITH    PREFACE    BY 

G.  BERNARD   SHAW 


NEW  YORK 
BRENTANO'S 

Printed  for 

THE  CONNECTICUT  SOCIETY  OF  SOCIAL  HYGIENE 

1912 


Copyright,  1907,  by  G.  Bernard  Shaw 
Copyright,  1910,  by  O.  Bernard  Shaw 
Copyright,  1911,  by  Charlotte  Frances  Shaw. 


THE  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 


PREFACE 

By  Bernard  Shaw 

In  a  volume  of  plays  by  Brieux  recently  published,  Mr. 
Bernard  Shaw  writes  as  foUows  of  "  Damaged  Goods " 
(Les  Avaries) : 

In  this  play  Brieux  took  for  his  theme  the  diseases  that 
are  supposed  to  be  the  punishment  of  profligate  men  and 
women.  It  was  a  diflicult  and  even  dangerous  enterprise, 
because  it  brought  him  up  against  that  curious  tribal  sur- 
vival, the  Taboo.  Taboo  is  not  morality,  not  decency,  not 
reason,  justice,  or  anything  agreeable;  it  is  a  traditionally 
inculcated  convention  that  certain  things  must  not  be  men- 
tioned, with  the  inevitable  result  that  under  this  strange 
protection  of  silence,  they  fall  into  hideous  corruption  and 
abuse,  and  go  from  bad  to  worse  whilst  those  who  know 
what  is  happening  must  look  on,  tonguetied,  at  the  inno- 
cents playing  unwarned  on  the  edge  of  a  hidden  precipice, 
and  being  sacrificed  to  the  Taboo  in  appalling  numbers  every 
day.  Now  the  diseases  dealt  with  in  "Damaged  Goods" 
are  doubly  taboo,  because  the  sacrifices  are  ignorantly  sup- 
posed to  be  the  salutary  penalties  of  misconduct.  Not  only 
must  not  the  improper  thing  be  mentioned,  but  the  evil 
must  not  be  remedied,  because  it  is  a  just  retribution  and 
a  wholesome  deterrent.  The  last  point  may  be  dismissed 
by  simply  inquiring  how  a  disease  can  possibly  act  as  a 
deterrent  when  people  are  kept  in  ignorance  of  its  exist- 
ence. But  the  punishment  theory  is  a  hideous  mistake. 
It  might  as  well  be  contended  that  fires  should  not  be 
put  out  because  they  are  the  just  punishment  of  the  in- 


iv  Preface 

cendiary.  Most  of  the  victims  of  these  diseases  are 
entirely  innocent  persons :  children  who  do  not  know 
what  vice  means,  and  women  to  whom  it  is  impossible  to 
explain  what  is  the  matter  with  them.  Nor  are  their 
fathers  and  husbands  necessarily  to  blame.  Even  if 
they  were,  it  would  be  wicked  to  leave  them  unwarned 
when  the  consequences  can  spread  so  widely  beyond 
themselves ;  for  there  are  dozens  of  indirect  ways  in 
w^hich  this  contagion  can  take  place  exactly  as  any  other 
contagion  can.  The  presence  of  one  infected  person 
in  a  house  may  lead  to  the  infection  of  everybody  else 
in  it  even  if  they  have  never  seen  one  another.  In  fact 
it  is  impossible  to  prove  in  any  given  case  that  the 
sufferer  is  in  any  way  culpable:  every  profligate  excuses 
himself  or  herself  to  the  doctor  on  this  ground ;  and 
though  the  excuse  may  not  be  believed,  its  truth  is  gen- 
erally possible.  Add  to  the  chances  of  contagion  the 
hereditary  transmission  of  the  disease,  and  the  fact  that 
an  innocent  person  receiving  it  from  a  guilty  partner 
without  other  grounds  for  divorce  has  no  legal  redress ; 
and  it  becomes  at  once  apparent  that  every  guilty  case 
may  produce  several  innocent  ones.  Under  such  cir- 
cumstances, even  if  it  were  possible  in  a  civilized  com- 
munity to  leave  misconduct  to  be  checked  by  its  natural 
or  accidental  consequences,  or  by  private  vengeance  in- 
stead of  by  carefully  considered  legal  measures,  such  an 
anarchical  solution  must  be  ruled  out  in  the  present 
case,  as  the  disease  strikes  blindly  at  everyone  whom  it 
reaches,  and  there  are  as  many  innocent  paths  for  its 
venom  as  guilty  ones.  The  taboo  actually  discriminates 
heavily  against  the  innocent,  because,  as  taboos  are  not 
respected  in  profligate  society,  systematic  profligates 
learn  the  danger  in  their  loose  conversations,  and  take 
precautions,  whereas  the  innocent  expose  themselves 
recklessly  in  complete  ignorance,  handling  possibly  con- 
taminated articles  and  entering  possibly  infected  places 


Preface  v 

without  the  least  suspicion  that  any  such  danger  exists. 
In  Brieux's  play  the  husband  alone  is  culpable;  but  his 
misconduct  presently  involves  his  wife,  his  child,  and  his 
child's  nurse.  It  requires  very  little  imagination  to  see 
that  this  by  no  means  exhausts  the  possibilities.  The 
nurse,  wholly  guiltless  of  the  original  sin,  is  likely  to 
spread  its  consequences  far  more  widely  than  the  orig- 
inal sinner.  A  grotesque  result  of  this  is  that  there  is 
always  a  demand,  especially  in  France,  for  infected 
nurses,  because  the  doctor,  when  he  knows  the  child  to 
be  infected,  feels  that  he  is  committing  a  crime  in  not 
warning  the  nurse;  and  the  only  way  out  of  the  diffi- 
culty is  to  find  a  nurse  who  is  already  infected  and  has 
nothing  more  to  fear.  How  little  the  conscience  of  the 
family  is  to  be  depended  on  when  the  interests  of  a  be- 
loved child  are  in  the  scale  against  a  mere  cold  duty  to 
a  domestic  servant,  has  been  well  shown  by  Brieux 
in  the  second  act  of  his  play.  But  indeed  anyone 
who  will  take  the  trouble  to  read  the  treatise  of  Four- 
nier,  or  the  lectures  of  Duclaux,  or,  in  English,  the 
chapters  in  which  Havelock  Ellis  has  dealt  with  this 
subject,  will  need  no  further  instruction  to  convince 
him  that  no  play  ever  written  was  more  needed  than 
Les  Avaries. 

It  must  be  added  that  a  startling  change  in  the  ur- 
gency of  the  question  has  been  produced  by  recent  ad- 
vances in  pathology.  Briefly  stated,  the  facts  of  the 
change  are  as  follows.  In  the  boyhood  of  those  of  us 
who  are  now  of  middle  age,  the  diseases  in  question  were 
known  as  mainly  of  two  kinds.  One,  admittedly  very 
common,  was  considered  transient,  easily  curable,  harm- 
less to  future  generations,  and,  to  everyone  but  the 
sufferer,  dismissible  as  a  ludicrous  incident.  The  other 
was  known  to  be  one  of  the  most  formidable  scourges  of 
mankind,  capable  at  its  worst  of  hideous  disfigurement 
and  ruinous  hereditary  transmission,  but  not  at  all  so 


VI 


Preface 


common  as  the  more  trifling  ailment,  and  alleged  by  some 
authorities  to  be  dying  out  like  typhus  or  plague.  That  is 
the  belief  still  entertained  by  the  elderly  section  of  the 
medical  profession  and  those  whom  it  has  instructed. 

This  easy-going  estimate  of  the  situation  was  alarm- 
ingly upset  in  1879  by  Neisser's  investigation  of  the  sup- 
posedly trivial  disease,  which  he  associated  with  a  ma- 
lignant micro-organism  called  the  gonococcus.  The 
physicians  who  still  ridicule  its  gravity  are  now  con- 
fronted by  an  agitation,  led  by  medical  women  and  pro- 
fessional nurses,  who  cite  a  formidable  array  of  author- 
ities for  their  statements  that  it  is  the  commonest  cause 
of  blindness,  and  that  it  is  transmitted  from  father  to 
mother,  from  mother  to  child,  from  child  to  nurse,  pro- 
ducing evils  from  which  the  individual  attacked  never 
gets  securely  free.  If  half  the  scientific  evidence  be 
true,  a  marriage  contracted  by  a  person  actively  affected 
in  either  way  is  perhaps  the  worst  crime  that  can  be 
committed  with  legal  impunity  in  a  civilized  community. 
The  danger  of  becoming  the  victim  of  such  a  crime  is 
the  worst  danger  that  lurks  in  marriage  for  men  and 
women,  and  in  domestic  service  for  nurses. 

Stupid  people  who  are  forced  by  these  facts  to  admit 
that  the  simple  taboo  which  forbids  the  subject  to  be 
mentioned  at  all  is  ruinous,  still  fall  back  on  the  plea 
that  though  the  public  ought  to  be  warned,  the  theatre 
is  not  the  proper  place  for  the  warning.  When  asked 
"  What,  then, i*  the  proper  place?  "  they  plead  that  the 
proper  place  is  out  of  hearing  of  the  general  public:  that 
is,  not  in  a  school,  not  in  a  church,  not  in  a  newspaper, 
not  in  a  public  meeting,  but  in  medical  text-books  which 
are  read  only  by  medical  students.  This,  of  course,  is 
the  taboo  over  again,  only  sufficiently  ashamed  of  itself 
to  resort  to  subterfuge.  The  commonsense  of  the  matter 
is  that  a  public  danger  needs  a  public  warning ;  and  the 
more  public  the  place  the  more  effective  the  warning. 


Preface  vii 

Why  the  Unmentionable  must  be  ^lentJoned 
on  the  Stage 

But  beyond  this  general  consideration  there  is  a  spe- 
cial need  for  the  warning  in  the  theatre.  The  best 
friends  of  the  theatre  cannot  deny,  and  need  not  seek 
to  deny,  that  a  considerable  proportion  of  our  theatrical 
entertainments  stimulate  the  sexual  instincts  of  the  spec- 
tators. Indeed  this  is  so  commonly  the  case  that  a  play 
which  contains  no  sexual  appeal  is  quite  openly  and  com- 
monly written  of,  even  by  professional  critics  of  high 
standing,  as  being  "  undramatic,"  or  "  not  a  play  at  all." 
This  is  the  basis  of  the  prejudice  against  the  theatre 
shown  by  that  section  of  English  society  in  which  sex  is 
regarded  as  original  sin,  and  the  theatre,  consequently, 
as  the  gate  of  hell.  The  prejudice  is  thoughtless:  sex  is 
a  necessary  and  healthy  instinct ;  and  its  nurture  and 
education  is  one  of  the  most  important  uses  of  all  art; 
and,  for  the  present  at  all  events,  the  chief  use  of  the 
theatre. 

Now  it  may  be  an  open  question  whether  the  theatre 
has  proved  itself  worthy  of  being  entrusted  with  so 
serious  a  function.  I  can  conceive  a  community  passing 
a  law  forbidding  dramatic  authors  to  deal  with  sex  as  a 
motive  at  all.  Although  such  a  law  would  consign  the 
great  bulk  of  existing  dramatic  literature  to  the  waste- 
paper  basket,  it  would  neither  destroy  it  wholly  nor 
paralyze  all  future  playwrights.  The  bowdlerization  of 
Moliere  and  Shakespear  on  the  basis  of  such  a  law 
would  leave  a  surprising  quantity  of  their  work  intact. 
The  novels  of  Dickens  and  his  contemporaries  are  before 
us  to  prove  how  independent  the  imaginative  writer  is 
of  the  theme  so  often  assumed  to  be  indispensable  in 
fiction.  The  works  in  which  it  is  dragged  in  by  the  ears 
on  this  false  assumption  are  far  more  numerous  than  the 
tales  and  plays  —  Manon  Lescaut  is  an  example  —  of 


VUl 


Preface 


which  it  forms  the  entire  substance.  Just  as  the  Euro- 
pean dramatist  is  able  to  write  plays  without  introducing 
an  accouchement,  which  is  regarded  as  indispensable  in 
all  sympathetic  Chinese  plays,  he  can,  if  he  is  put  to 
it,  dispense  with  any  theme  that  law  or  custom  could 
conceivably  forbid,  and  still  find  himself  rich  in  dra- 
matic material.  Let  us  grant  therefore  that  love  might 
be  ruled  out  by  a  written  law  as  effectually  as  cholera  is 
ruled  out  by  an  unwritten  one  without  utterly  ruining  the 
theatre. 

Still,  it  is  none  the  less  beyond  all  question  by  any 
reasonable  and  thoughtful  person  that  if  we  tolerate  any 
subject  on  the  stage  we  must  not  tolerate  it  by  halves. 
It  may  be  questioned  whether  we  should  allow  war  on 
the  stage;  but  it  cannot  sanely  be  questioned  that,  if  we 
do,  we  must  allow  its  horrors  to  be  represented  as  well 
as  its  glories.  Destruction  and  murder,  pestilence  and 
famine,  demoralization  and  cruelty,  robbery  and  job- 
bery, must  be  allowed  to  contend  with  patriotism  and 
military  heroism  on  the  boards  as  they  do  in  actual  war: 
otherwise  the  stage  might  inflame  national  hatreds  and 
lead  to  their  gratification  with  a  recklessness  that  would 
make  a  cockpit  of  Europe.  Again,  if  unscrupulous 
authors  are  to  be  allowed  to  make  the  stage  a  parade  of 
champagne  bottles,  syphons,  and  tantaluses,  scrupulous 
ones  must  be  allowed  to  write  such  plays  as  L'Assommoir, 
which  has,  as  a  matter  of  simple  fact,  effectively  deterred 
many  young  men  from  drunkenness.  Nobody  disputes 
the  reasonableness  of  this  freedom  to  present  both  sides.' 
But  when  we  corns  to  sex,  the  taboo  steps  in,  with  the 
result  that  all  the  allurements  of  sex  may  be  exhibited 
on  the  stage  heightened  by  every  artifice  that  the  imag- 
ination of  the  voluptuary  can  devise,  but  not  one  of  its 
dangers  and  penalties.  You  may  exhibit  seduction  or 
the  stage ;  but  you  must  not  even  mention  illegitimate 
conception  and   criminal  abortion.     We  may^and   do, 


Preface  ix 

parade  prostitution  to  the  point  of  intoxicating  every 
young  person  in  the  theatre;  yet  no  young  person  may 
hear  a  word  as  to  the  diseases  that  follow  prostitution 
and  avenge  the  prostitute  to  the  third  and  fourth  genera- 
tion of  them  that  buy  her.  Our  shops  and  business 
offices  are  full  of  young  men  living  in  lonely  lodgings, 
whose  only  artistic  recreation  is  the  theatre.  In  the 
theatre  we  practise  upon  them  every  art  that  can  make 
their  loneliness  intolerable  and  heighten  the  charm  of  the 
bait  in  the  snares  of  the  street  as  they  go  home.  But 
when  a  dramatist  is  enlightened  enough  to  understand 
the  danger,  and  sympathetic  enough  to  come  to  the  rescue 
with  a  play  to  expose  the  snare  and  warn  the  victim, 
we  forbid  the  manager  to  perform  it  on  pain  of  ruin,  and 
denounce  the  author  as  a  corrupter  of  morals.  One 
hardly  knows  whether  to  laugh  or  cry  at  such  perverse 
stupidity. 

Brieux  and  Voltaire 

It  is  a  noteworthy  fact  that  when  Brieux  wrote  Les 
Avaries  (Damaged  Goods)  his  experience  with  it  re- 
called in  one  particular  that  of  Voltaire. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  Voltaire,  whose  religious 
opinions  were  almost  exactly  those  of  most  English  Non- 
conformists to-day,  took  refuge  from  the  Established 
Church  of  France  near  Geneva,  the  city  of  Calvin,  where 
he  established  himself  as  the  first  and  the  greatest  of 
modern  Nonconformist  philanthropists.  The  Genevese 
ministers  found  his  theology  so  much  to  their  taste  that 
they  were  prevented  from  becoming  open  Voltaireans 
only  by  the  scandal  he  gave  by  his  ridicule  of  the  current 
Genevese  idolatry  of  the  Bible,  from  which  he  was  as 
free  as  any  of  our  prominent  Baptists  and  Congrega- 
tionalists.  In  the  same  way,  when  Brieux,  having  had 
his  Les  Avaries  condemned  by  the  now  extinct  French 
censorship,  paid  a  visit  to  Switzerland,  he  was  invited 


X  Preface 

by  a  Swiss  minister  to  read  the  play  from  the  pulpit; 
and  though  the  reading  actually  took  place  in  a  secular 
building,  it  was  at  the  invitation  and  under  the  auspices 
of  the  minister.  The  minister  knew  what  the  Censor  did 
not  know:  that  what  Brieux  says  in  Les  Avaries  needs 
saying.  The  minister  believed  that  when  a  thing  needs 
saying,  a  man  is  in  due  course  inspired  to  say  it,  and  that 
such  inspiration  gives  him  a  divine  right  to  be  heard. 
And  this  appears  to  be  the  simple  truth  of  the  matter 
in  terms  of  the  minister's  divinity.  P'or  most  certainly 
Brieux  had  every  worldly  inducement  to  refrain  from 
writing  this  play,  and  no  motive  for  disregarding  these 
inducements  except  the  motive  that  made  Luther  tear  up 
the  Pope's  Bull,  and  Mahomet  tell  the  idolatrous  Arabs 
of  Mecca  that  they  were  worshipping  stones. 


DAMAGED    GOODS 

[Les  Avaries] 

Translated  by 
JOHN    POLLOCK 


Before  the  play  begins  the  manager  appears  upon  the 
stage  and  says:  — 

Ladies  and  Gentlemen, 

I  beg  leave  to  inform  you,  on  behalf  of  the  author  and 
of  the  management,  that  the  object  of  this  play  is  a  study 
of  the  disease  of  syphilis  in  its  bearing  on  marriage. 

It  contains  no  scene  to  provoke  scandal  or  arouse  dis- 
gust, nor  is  there  in  it  any  obscene  word ;  and  it  may  be 
"witnessed  by  everyone,  unless  we  must  believe  that  folly 
and  ignorance  are  necessary  conditions  of  female  virtue. 


DAMAGED  GOODS 

[Les  Avaries] 

ACT    I 

The  doctor's  consulting  room.  To  the  right  a  large 
stained-glass  window  representing  a  religious  subject. 
In  front  of  this,  on  pedestals,  bronzes  and  statues.  Par- 
allel to  it  a  large  Louis  XIV  writing-table  littered  with 
papers  and  statuettes.  Between  the  desk  and  the  win- 
dow the  doctor's  chair.  On  the  other  side  an  arm-chair 
nearly  facing  the  footlights  and  a  stool.  To  the  left  the 
entrance  door,  which,  xchen  opened,  reveals  a  corridor 
lined  with  tapestries,  statues,  and  paintings.  Beyond 
the  door  a  large  glass  bookcase,  above  which  hang  por- 
traits of  Wallace,  Dupuytren,  and  Ricord.  Busts  of  cel- 
ebrated physicians.  A  small  table  and  two  chairs.  At 
the  back  a  small  door.  The  room  is  sumptuously  fur- 
nished and  literally  encumbered  with  works  of  art. 

George  Dupont,  in  great  distress  and  ill  at  ease,  enters 
by  the  door  at  the  back,  takes  his  stick,  gloves,  and  hat 
from  the  stool,  and  sits  down  on  the  sofa  before  the 
"writing-table.     He  is  a   big   fellow  of  twenty-six,  with 

13 


14  Damaged  Goods  Act  I 

large,  round  eyes,  and  simple,  hut  not  ludicrous  appear- 
ance. A  heavy  sigh  escapes  him.  The  doctor,  a  man  of 
forty,  with  the  ribbon  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  in  the 
buttonhole  of  his  frock-coat,  follows  and  takes  his  seat. 
He  gives  the  impression  of  a  man  of  strength  and 
intellect. 

George.    Well,  doctor? 

Doctor.     Well !     There  is  no  doubt  about  your  case. 

George  [wiping  his  forehead]  No  doubt  —  How  do 
you  mean  no  doubt.'' 

Doctor.  I  mean  it  in  the  bad  sense.  [He  writes. 
George  turns  pale,  and  stays  silent  for  a  moment  in 
terror.  He  sighs  again]  Come,  come !  You  must  have 
thought  as  much. 

George.     No,  no. 

Doctor.    All  the  same  ! 

George   [^utterly  prostrated]     Good  God! 

Doctor  \^stops  writing  and  observes  him]  Don't  be 
frightened.  Out  of  every  seven  men  you  meet  in  the 
street,  or  in  society,  or  at  the  theatre,  there  is  at  least 
one  who  is  or  has  been  in  your  condition.  One  in  seven, 
fifteen  per  cent. 

George  [quietly,  as  if  to  himself]  Anyhow,  I  know 
what  to  do. 

Doctor.  Certainly.  Here  is  your  prescription.  You 
will  take  it  to  the  chemist's  and  have  it  made  up. 

George   [taking  the  prescription]      No. 

Doctor.  Yes:  you  will  do  just  what  everyone  else 
does. 

George.  Everyone  else  is  not  in  my  position.  I 
know  what  to  do.     [He  raises  his  hand  to  his  temple]. 

Doctor.  Five  times  out  of  ten  the  men  who  sit  in 
that  chair  before  me  do  that,  perfectly  sincerely.  Every- 
one thinks  himself  more  unfortunate  than  the  rest.  On 
second  thoughts,  and  after  I  have  talked  to  them,  they 


Act  I  Damaged  Goods  15 

realize  that  this  disease  is  a  companion  with  which  one 
can  live;  only,  as  in  all  households,  domestic  peace  is  to 
be  had  at  the  price  of  mutual  concessions.  Come  now, 
I  repeat,  there  is  nothing  in  all  this  beyond  the  ordinary. 
It  is  simply  an  accident  that  might  happen  to  anybody. 
I  assure  you  it  is  far  too  common  to  merit  the  name 
"  French  disease,"  There  is,  in  fact,  none  that  is  more 
universal.  If  you  wanted  to  find  a  motto  for  the  crea- 
tures who  make  a  trade  of  selling  their  love,  you  could 
almost  take  the  famous  lines,  "  There  is  your  master. 
...   It  is,  it  was,  or  it  must  be." 

George  [putting  the  prescription  in  the  outer 
pocket  of  his  coat]  But  I  at  least  ought  to  have  been 
spared. 

Doctor.  Why?  Because  you  are  a  man  of  good  posi- 
tion? Because  you  are  rich?  Look  round  you.  Look 
at  these  works  of  art;  five  are  copies  of  John  of  Bo- 
logna's Mercury,  six  of  Pigallo's,  three  are  reproduc- 
tions —  in  wax,  to  be  sure  —  of  the  lost  Wounded  Love 
by  Paccini;  do  you  think  that  all  these  have  been  pre- 
sented to  me  by  beggars  ? 

George  [groaning]  I  'm  not  a  rake,  doctor.  My  life 
might  be  held  up  as  an  example  to  all  young  men.  I 
assure  you,  no  one  could  possibly  have  been  more  pru- 
dent, no  one.  See  here ;  supposing  I  told  you  that  in  all 
my  life  I  have  only  had  two  mistresses,  what  would  you 
say  to  that? 

Doctor.  That  one  would  have  been  enough  to  bring 
you  here. 

George.  No,  doctor,  not  one  of  those  two.  No  one 
in  the  world  has  dreaded  this  so  much  as  I  have;  no  one 
has  ever  taken  such  infinite  precautions  to  avoid  it.  My 
first  mistress  was  the  wife  of  my  best  friend.  I  chose 
her  on  account  of  him;  and  him,  not  because  I  cared 
most  for  him,  but  because  I  knew  he  was  a  man  of  the 
most  rigid  morals,  who  watched  his  wife  jealously  and 


16  Damaged  Goods  Act  I 

did  n't  let  her  go  about  forming  imprudent  connections. 
As  for  her,  I  kept  her  in  absolute  terror  of  this  disease. 
I  told  her  that  almost  all  men  were  taken  with  it,  so  that 
she  might  n't  dream  of  being  false  to  me.  My  friend  died 
in  my  arms :  that  was  the  only  thing  that  could  have 
separated  me  from  her.  Then  I  took  up  with  a  young 
seamstress. 

Doctor.  None  of  your  other  friends  had  sufficiently 
reassuring  morals  ? 

George.     No.     You  know  what  morals  are  nowadays. 

Doctor.     Better  than  anyone. 

George.  Well,  this  was  a  decent  girl  with  a  family 
in  needy  circumstances  to  support.  Her  grandmother 
was  an  invalid,  and  there  was  an  ailing  father  and  three 
little  brothers.  It  was  by  my  means  that  they  all  lived. 
They  used  to  call  me  Uncle  Raoul  —  I  was  not  so  green 
as  to  give  my  real  name,  you  see. 

Doctor.  Oh!  Your  Christian  name,  well  —  besides, 
it  is  always  safer. 

George.  Why,  of  course.  I  told  her  and  I  let  the 
others  know  that  if  she  played  me  false  I  should  leave 
her  at  once.  So  then  they  all  watched  her  for  me.  It 
became  a  regular  thing  that  I  should  spend  Sunday  with 
tliem,  and  in  that  sort  of  way  I  was  able  to  give  her  a 
lift  up.  Church-going  was  a  respectable  kind  of  outing 
for  her.  I  rented  a  pew  for  them  and  her  mother  used 
to  go  with  her  to  church;  they  liked  seeing  their  name 
engraved  on  the  card.  She  never  left  the  house  alone. 
Three  months  ago,  when  the  question  of  my  marriage 
came  up,  I  had  to  leave  her.  They  all  cried  over  my 
going.  I  'm  not  inventing  or  exaggerating:  they  all 
cried.  You  see,  I  'm  not  a  bad  sort.  People  do  re- 
gret me. 

Doctor.  You  were  very  happy.  Why  did  you  want 
to  change? 

George  [stirprised  at  the  question}     I  wanted  to  settle 


Act  I  Damaged  Goods  17 

down.  My  father  was  a  notary,  and  before  his  death 
he  expressed  the  wish  that  I  should  marry  my  cousin.  It 
was  a  good  match ;  her  dowry  will  help  to  get  me  a  prac- 
tice. Besides,  I  simply  adore  her.  She  's  fond  of  me, 
too.  I  had  everything  one  could  want  to  make  life  happy. 
My  acquaintances  all  envied  me.  [Miserably]  And 
then  a  lot  of  idiots  must  give  me  a  farewell  dinner  and 
make  me  gad  about  with  them.  See  what  has  come  of 
it !  I  have  n't  any  luck,  I  've  never  had  any  luck !  I 
know  fellows  who  lead  the  most  racketty  lives :  nothing 
happens  to  them,  the  beasts  !  But  I  —  for  a  wretched 
lark  —  What  is  there  left  for  a  leper  like  me  ?  My 
future  is  ruined,  my  whole  life  poisoned.  Well  then, 
is  n't  it  better  for  me  to  clear  out  of  it  ?  Anyway,  I  shan't 
suffer  any  more.  You  see  now,  no  one  could  be  more 
wretched  than  I  am.  [Crying]  No  one,  doctor,  I  tell 
you,  no  one !  [He  buries  his  face  in  his  handkerchief] 
Oh,  oh,  oh ! 

Doctor  [rising  and  going  to  him  icith  a  smile]  You 
must  be  a  man,  and  not  cry  like  a  child. 

George  [still  in  tears]  If  I  had  led  a  wild  life  and 
spent  my  time  in  bars  and  going  about  with  women,  I 
should  understand:   I  should  say  I  deserved  it. 

Doctor.     No. 

George.    No.^" 

Doctor.  No.  You  would  not  say  so:  but  it  doesn't 
matter.     Go  on. 

George.  Yes,  I  know  I  should.  I  should  say  I  de- 
served it.  But  for  nothing !  nothing !  I  have  cut  myself 
off  from  all  pleasures.  I  have  resisted  attractions  as  you 
would  the  devil.  I  would  n't  go  with  my  friends  to 
places  of  amusement:  ladies  I  knew  actually  pointed  me 
out  to  their  boys  as  an  example.  I  stuck  to  my  Avork:  I 
forced  myself  to  be  more  regular  in  my  habits.  Why,  my 
two  friends  helped  me  to  prepare  for  my  law  exams. 
I  taught  them  to  make  me  cram,  and  it 's  thanks  to  them 


18'  Damaged  Goods  Act  I 

that  I  got  through.  Oh,  I  should  have  liked  lo  come 
home  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  with  my  coat-collar 
turned  up,  smoking  a  cigar  lit  in  some  ballet-girl's  rooms ! 
I  've  longed  as  much  as  anyone  for  the  taste  of  rouged 
lips  and  the  glitter  of  blacked  eyes  and  pale  faces !  I 
should  have  hked  larks  and  jolly  suppers  and  cham- 
pagne and  the  rustle  of  lace  and  all  the  rest  of  it !  I  've 
sacrificed  all  that  to  my  healthy  and  see  what  I  've  got 
for  it.  Ah,  if  I  had  known!  If  I  had  only  known! 
Then  I  should  have  let  myself  go;  yes,  altogether! 
That  would  have  been  something  to  the  good,  anyway! 
When  T  think  of  it !  When  I  think  of  the  beastliness,  the 
frightful  horrors  in  store  for  me ! 

Doctor.     What's  all  that  nonsense? 

George.  Yes,  yes,  I  know  —  hair  falling  out,  camo- 
mile for  a  cocktail,  and  a  bath  chair  for  a  motor  car,  with 
a  little  handle  for  the  steering  wheel  and  a  fellow  shov- 
ing behind  instead  of  the  engine ;  and  I  shall  go,  Gug, 
gug,  gug,  gug!  [Crying]  That's  what  will  be  left  of 
handsome  Raoul  —  that 's  what  they  called  me,  hand- 
some Raoul ! 

Doctor.  My  dear  sir,  kindly  dry  your  eyes  for  the 
last  time,  blow  your  nose,  put  your  handkerchief  in  your 
pocket,  and  listen  to  me  without  blubbering. 

George  [doing  so]  Yes,  doctor;  but  I  warn  you, 
you  are  wasting  your  time. 

Doctor.     I  assure  you  — 

George.     I  know  what  you  are  going  to  tell  me. 

Doctor.  In  that  case  you  have  no  business  here.  Be 
off  with  you ! 

George.  As  I  am  here,  I  '11  listen,  doctor.  It 's 
awfuUy  good  of  you. 

Doctor.  If  yon  have  the  will  and  the  perseverance, 
none  of  the  things  you  are  dreading  will  happen  to  you. 

George.     Of  course.     You  are  bound  to  tell  me  that. 

Doctor.     I  tell  vou  that  there  are  a  hundred  thousand 


Act  I  Damaged  Goods  19 

men  in  Paris  like  you,  sound  and  in  good  health,  I  give 
you  my  word.  Come,  now !  Bath  chairs !  You  don't  see 
quite  so  many  as  that. 

George  [struck]     Nor  do  you. 

Doctor.  Besides,  those  who  are  in  them  are  not  all 
there  for  the  reason  you  think.  Come,  come !  You  will 
not  be  the  victim  of  a  catastrophe  any  more  than  the 
other  hundred  thousand.  The  thing  is  serious:  nothing 
more. 

George.    There,  you  see.    It  is  a  serious  disease. 

Doctor.    Yes. 

George.    One  of  the  most  serious. 

Doctor.     Yes ;   but  you  have  the  good  luck  — 

George.     Good  luck? 

Doctor.  Relatively,  if  you  like;  but  you  have  the 
good  luck  to  have  contracted  just  that  one  among  serious 
diseases  which  we  have  the  most  effective  means  of 
combating. 

George.    I  know:   remedies  worse  than  the  disease. 

Doctor.     You  are  mistaken. 

George.  You  're  not  going  to  tell  me  that  it  can  be 
cured  ? 

Doctor.     It  can. 

George.     And  that  I  am  not  condemned  to  — 

Doctor.     I  give  you  my  word  on  it. 

George.  You  're  not  —  you  're  not  making  some  mis- 
take ?     I  have  been  told  — 

Doctor  [shrugging  his  shoulders]  You  have  been 
told !  You  have  been  told !  No  doubt  you  know  all  the 
ins  and  outs  of  the  law  of  property. 

George.  Yes,  certainly;  but  I  don't  see  what 
connection  — 

Doctor.  Instead  of  being  taught  that,  it  would  have 
been  much  better  if  you  had  been  told  the  nature  of  the 
disease  from  which  you  are  suffering.  Then,  perhaps, 
you  would  have  been  sufficiently  afraid  to  avoid  con- 
tracting it. 


20  Damaged  Goods  Act  I 

George.  But  this  woman  was  so  —  well,  who  could 
have  thought  such,  a  thing  of  her?  I  didn't  take  a 
woman  off  the  streets,  you  know.  She  lives  in  the  Rue 
de  Berne  —  not  exactly  a  low  part  of  the  town,  is  it? 

Doctor.  The  part  of  the  town  has  nothing  to  do  with 
it.  This  disease  differs  from  many  others ;  it  has  no 
preference  for  the  unfortunate. 

George.  But  this  woman  lives  almost  straight.  One 
of  my  chums  has  a  mistress  who  's  a  married  woman. 
Well,  it  was  a  friend  of  hers.  Her  mother  —  she  lives 
with  her  mother  —  was  abroad  at  the  time.  At  first  she 
would  n't  listen  to  me :  then,  finally,  after  I  had  spent 
a  whole  half-hour  persuading  her  I  had  to  promise  her  a 
ring  like  one  of  her  friend's  before  she  would  give  way. 
She  even  made  me  take  off  my  boots  before  going  up- 
stairs so  that  the  porter  might  n't  hear. 

Doctor.  Well,  if  you  had  been  taught,  you  would 
have  known  that  these  circumstances  are  no  guarantee. 

George.    That 's  true ;   we  ought  to  be  taught. 

Doctor.    Yes. 

George.  At  the  same  time  it 's  not  a  subject  that  can 
be  broached  in  the  papers. 

Doctor.    Why  not? 

George.  I  can  speak  of  my  own  knowledge,  for  my 
father  used  to  own  a  small  provincial  paper.  If  we  had 
ever  printed  that  word,  the  circulation  would  have 
dropped  like  a  stone. 

Doctor.    Yet  you  would  publish  novels  about  adultery. 

George.     Of  course.     That 's  what  the  public  wants. 

Doctor.  You  are  right.  It  is  the  public  that  needs 
to  be  educated.  A  respectable  man  will  take  his  wife 
and  daughters  to  a  music-hall,  where  they  hear  things 
to  make  a  doctor  blush.  His  modesty  is  only  alarmed 
by  serious  words. 

George.  And  then,  after  all,  what  would  one  gain 
by  being  posted  up  about  this  disease  ? 


Act  I  Damaged  Goods  21 

Doctor.  If  it  were  better  understood  it  would  be 
more  often  avoided. 

George.  What  one  wants  is  some  means  of  avoiding 
it  altogether. 

Doctor.     Oh  !    That  is  quite  simple. 

George.    Tell  me. 

Doctor.  It  is  no  longer  any  concern  of  yours ;  but 
when  you  have  a  son  you  will  be  able  to  tell  him  what 
to  do. 

George.    What 's  that  .'* 

Doctor.  To  love  only  one  woman,  to  be  her  first  lover, 
and  to  love  her  so  well  that  she  will  never  be  false  to  you. 

George.     But  do  you  mean  that  I  can  have  children.'* 

Doctor.     Certainly. 

George.     Healthy  ones? 

Doctor.  Perfectly  healthy.  I  repeat:  if  you  take 
proper  and  reasonable  care  of  yourself  for  the  necessary 
length  of  time,  you  have  little  to  fear. 

George.      Is  that  certain? 

Doctor.     Ninety-nine  times  out  of  a  hundred. 

George.    Then  I  shall  be  able  to  marry? 

Doctor.     You  will  be  able  to  marry. 

George.  You  're  not  deceiving  me,  are  you  ?  You 
would  n't  give  me  false  hopes  ?  You  would  n't  — 
How  soon  shall  I  be  able  to  marry? 

Doctor.      In  three  or  four  years. 

George.    What!   three  or  four  years?     Not  before? 

Doctor.      Not  before. 

George.  Why?  Am  I  going  to  be  ill  all  that  time? 
You  said  just  now  — 

Doctor.  The  disease  will  no  longer  be  dangerous  to 
you  yourself,  but  you  will  be  dangerous  to  others. 

George.  But,  doctor,  I  am  going  to  be  married  in  a 
month ! 

Doctor.     Impossible. 


22  Damaged  Goods  Act  I 

George.  I  can't  help  it.  The  contract  is  all  ready: 
the  banns  have  been  published.     I  have  given  my  word. 

Doctor.  Here  's  a  pretty  patient !  A  moment  ago 
you  were  feeling  for  your  pistol;  now  you  want  to  be 
married  in  a  month ! 

George,     But  I  must ! 

Doctor.      I   forbid  you. 

George.  You  can't  mean  that  seriously.  If  this 
disease  is  not  what  I  imagined,  and  if  I  can  be  cured, 
I  shan't  commit  suicide.  If  I  don't  kill  myself,  I  must 
take  up  the  ordinary  course  of  my  life.  I  must  fulfill  my 
engagements :    I  must  be  married. 

Doctor.     No. 

George.  If  my  engagement  were  broken  off  it  would 
be  absolutely  disastrous.  You  talk  of  it  like  that  be- 
cause you  don't  know.  I  did  n't  want  to  get  married. 
I  have  told  you  —  I  had  almost  a  second  family ;  the 
children  adored  me.  It  is  my  old  aunt,  who  owns  all  the 
property,  who  has  pushed  on  the  match.  Then  my 
mother  wants  to  see  me  "  settled  "  as  she  says.  The  only 
thing  in  the  world  she  wants  is  to  see  her  baby  grand- 
children, and  she  wonders  twenty  times  a  day  whether 
she  will  live  long  enough.  Since  the  question  first  came 
up  she  simply  has  n't  thought  of  anything  else ;  it 's 
the  dream  of  her  life.  And  then  I  tell  you  I  have  begim 
to  adore  Henriette.  If  I  draw  back  now  my  mother 
would  die  of  grief,  and  I  should  be  disinherited  by  my 
aunt.  Even  that  is  n't  all.  You  don't  know  my  father- 
in-law's  character.  He  is  a  man  of  regular  high  old 
principles ;  and  he  has  a  temper  like  the  devil.  What 's 
more,  he  simply  worships  his  daughter.  It  would  cost 
me  dear,  I  can  assure  you.  He  would  call  me  to  ac- 
count —  I  don't  know  what  would  happen.  So  there 
are  my  mother's  health,  my  aunt's  fortune,  my  future, 
my  honor,  perhaps  my  life,  all  at  stake.  Besides,  I  tell 
you  I  have  given  my  word. 


Act  I  Damaged  Goods  23 

Doctor.     You  must  take  it  back. 

George.  Well,  since  you  stick  to  it,  even  if  that  were 
possible,  I  could  not  take  back  my  signature  to  the  con- 
tract for  the  purchase  of  a  notary's  practice  in  two 
months'  time. 

Doctor.     All  these  — 

George.  You  won't  tell  me  that  I  have  been  impru- 
dent because  I  have  not  disposed  of  my  wife's  dowry 
till  after  the  honeymoon  — 

Doctor.  All  these  considerations  are  foreign  to  me. 
I  am  a  physician,  nothing  but  a  physician.  I  can  only 
tell  you  this:  if  you  marry  before  three  or  four  years 
have  elapsed  you  will  be  a   criminal. 

George.  No,  no  !  You  are  more  than  a  physician:  you 
are  a  confessor  as  well.  You  are  not  only  a  man  of 
science.  You  can't  observe  me  as  you  would  something 
in  your  laboratory  and  then  simply  say:  "  You  have  this, 
science  says  that.  Now  be  off  with  you !  "  My  whole 
life  depends  upon  you.  You  must  listen  to  me;  because 
when  you  know  everything  you  will  understand  the  situ- 
ation and  will  find  the  means  to  cure  me  in  a  month. 

Doctor.  I  can  only  tell  you  over  and  over  again  that 
no  such  means  exist.  It  is  impossible  to  be  certain  of 
your  cure  —  as  far  as  one  can  be  certain  —  under 
three    or    four   years. 

George.  I  tell  you  that  you  must  find  one.  Listen 
to  me:  if  I  am  not  married,  I  shall  not  get  the  dowry. 
Will  you  kindly  tell  me  how  I  am  to  carry  out  the  con- 
tract I  have  signed? 

Doctor.  Oh,  if  that  is  the  question,  it  is  very  simple. 
I  can  easily  show  you  the  way  out  of  the  difficulty.  Get 
into  touch  with  some  rich  man,  do  everything  you  can 
to  gain  his  confidence,  and  when  you  have  succeeded, 
rook  him  of  all  he  has. 

George.     I  'm  not  in  the  mood  for  joking. 

Doctor.     I  am  not  joking.     To  rob  that  man,  or  even 


24  Damaged  Goods  Act  I 

to  murder  him,  would  not  be  a  greater  crime  than  you 
would  commit  in  marrying  a  young  girl  in  good  health 
to  get  hold  of  her  dowry,  if  to  do  so  you  exposed  her  to 
the  terrible  consequences  of  the  disease  you  would  give 
her. 

George.     Terrible? 

Doctor.  Terrible;  and  death  is  not  the  worst  of 
them. 

George.     But  you  told  me  just  now  — 

Doctor.  Just  now  I  did  not  tell  you  everything.  This 
disease,  even  when  it  is  all  but  suppressed,  still  lies  below 
the  surface  ready  to  break  out  again.  Taken  all  round, 
it  is  serious  enough  to  make  it  an  infamy  to  expose  a 
woman  to  it  in  order  to  avoid  even  the  greatest  incon- 
venience. 

George.    But  is  it  certain  that  she  would  catch  it? 

Doctor.  Even  with  the  best  intentions,  I  won't  tell 
you  lies.  No;  it  is  not  absolutely  certain.  It  is  prob- 
able. And  there  is  something  else  I  will  tell  you.  Our 
remedies  are  not  infallible.  In  a  certain  number'  of 
cases  —  a  very  small  number,  scarcely  five  per  cent.  — 
they  have  no  effect.  You  may  be  one  of  these  exceptions 
or  your  wife  may  be.  In  that  case  —  I  will  use  an  ex- 
pression you  used  just  now  —  in  that  case  the  result 
would  be  the  most  frightful  horrors. 

George.     Give  me  your  advice. 

Doctor.  The  only  advice  I  can  give  you  is  not  to 
marry.  To  put  it  in  this  way,  you  owe  a  debt.  Perhaps 
its  repayment  will  not  be  exacted;  but  at  the  same  time 
your  creditor  may  come  down  on  you  suddenly,  after  a 
long  interval,  with  the  most  pitiless  brutality.  Come, 
come !  You  are  a  man  of  business.  Marriage  is  a  con- 
tract. If  you  marry  without  saying  anything,  you  will 
be  giving  an  implied  warranty  for  goods  which  you  know 
to  be  bad.  That  is  the  term,  is  n't  it?  It  would  be  a 
fraud  which  ought  to  be  punishable  by  law. 


Act  I  Damaged  Goods  25 

George.    But  what  can  I  do? 

Doctor.  Go  to  your  father-in-law  and  tell  him  the  un- 
varnished truth. 

George.  If  I  do  that,  it  will  not  be  a  delay  of  three 
or  four  years  that  he  will  impose  on  me.  He  will  refuse 
his  consent  for  good. 

Doctor.     In  that  case,  tell  him  nothing. 

George.  If  I  don't  give  him  a  reason,  I  don't  know 
what  he  won't  do.  He  is  a  man  of  the  most  violent  tem- 
per. Besides,  it  will  be  still  worse  for  Henriette  than 
for  me.  Look  here,  doctor;  from  what  I  have  said  to 
you,  no  doubt  you  think  I  simply  care  for  the  money. 
Well,  I  do  think  it  is  one's  primary  duty  to  make  certain 
of  a  reasonable  amount  of  comfort.  From  my  youth 
upwards  I  have  always  been  taught  that.  Nowadays 
one  must  think  of  it,  and  I  should  never  have  engaged 
myself  to  a  girl  without  money.  It 's  perfectly  natural. 
[With  emotion]  But  she  is  so  splendid,  she  is  so  much 
better  than  I  am  that  I  love  her  —  as  people  love  one 
another  in  books.  Of  course  it  Avould  be  a  frightful  dis- 
appointment not  to  have  the  practice  that  I  have  bought, 
but  that  would  not  be  the  worst  for  me.  The  worst 
would  be  losing  her.  If  you  could  see  her,  if  you  knew 
her,  you  would  understand.  [Taking  out  his  pocket- 
book]  Look  here;  here 's  her  photograph.  Just  look  at 
it.  [The  doctor  gently  refuses  it]  Oh,  my  darling,  to 
think  that  I  must  lose  you  or  else  —  Ah !  [He  kisses 
the  photograph,  then  puts  it  back  in  his  pocket]  I  beg 
your  pardon.  I  am  being  ridiculous.  I  know  I  am  some- 
times. Only  put  yourself  in  my  place.  I  love  her 
so. 

Doctor.  It  is  on  that  account  that  you  must  not  marry 
her. 

George.  But  how  can  I  get  out  of  it?  If  I  draw 
back  without  saying  anything  the  truth  wiU  leak  out  and 
I  shall  be  dishonored. 


2G  Damaged  Goods  Act  I 

Doctor.  There  is  nothing  dishonorable  about  being 
ill. 

George.  Ah,  yes !  But  people  are  such  idiots.  Even 
yesterday  I  myself  should  have  laughed  at  anyone  I 
knew  who  was  in  the  position  that  I  am  in  now.  Why, 
I  should  have  avoided  him  as  if  he  had  the  plague.  Oh, 
if  I  were  the  only  one  to  suffer !  But  she  —  she  loves 
me,  I  swear  she  does,  she  is  so  good.  It  will  be  dreadful 
for  her. 

Doctor.     Less  so  than  it  would  be  later. 

George.     There  '11  be  a  scandal. 

Doctor.     You  will  avoid  a  bigger  one. 

George  quietly  puts  two  twenty-franc  pieces  on  the 
desk,  takes  his  gloves,  hat,  and  stick,  and  gets  up. 

George.  I  will  think  it  over.  Thank  you,  doctor.  I 
shall  come  back  next  week  as  you  told  me  to  —  proba- 
bly.    [He  goes  toward  the  door]. 

Doctor  [rising]  No:  I  shall  not  see  you  next  week, 
and  what  is  more  you  will  not  think  it  over.  You  came 
here  knowing  what  you  had,  with  the  express  intention 
of  not  acting  by  my  advice  unless  it  agreed  with  your 
wishes.  A  flimsy  honesty  made  you  take  this  chance  of 
pacifying  your  conscience.  You  wanted  to  have  someone 
on  whom  you  could  afterwards  throw  the  responsibility 
of  an  act  you  knew  to  be  culpable.  Don't  protest.  Many 
who  come  here  think  as  you  think  and  do  what  you 
want  to  do.  But  when  they  have  married  in  opposition 
to  my  advice  the  results  have  been  for  the  most  part  so 
calamitous  that  now  I  am  almost  afraid  of  not  having 
been  persuasive  enough.  I  feel  as  though  in  spite  of 
everything  I  were  in  some  sort  the  cause  of  their  misery. 
I  ought  to  be  able  to  prevent  such  misery.  If  only  the 
people  who  are  the  cause  of  it  knew  what  I  know  and  had 
seen  what  I  have  seen,  it  would  be  impossible.  Give  me 
your  word  that  you  will  break  off  your  engagement. 

George.  I  can't  give  you  my  word.  I  can  only  repeat: 
I  will  think  it  over. 


Act  I  Damaged  Goods  27 

Doctor.     Think  over  what? 

Geo"Rge.     What  you  have  told  me. 

Doctor.  But  what  I  have  told  you  is  true.  You  can- 
not make  any  fresh  objections.  I  have  answered  those 
you  have  made.     You  must  be  convinced. 

George.  Well,  of  course  you  are  right  in  thinking  that 
I  posted  myself  up  a  bit  before  coming  to  see  you.  In 
the  first  place,  is  it  certain  that  I  have  the  disease  you 
think.''  You  say  so,  and  perhaps  it  is  true.  But  even  the 
greatest  doctors  are  sometimes  deceived.  Have  n't  I 
heard  that  Ricord,  your  master,  used  to  maintain  that  this 
disease  was  not  always  contagious.''  He  produced  cases 
to  prove  his  point.  Now  you  produce  fresh  cases  to 
disprove  it.  Very  well.  But  I  have  the  right  to  think  it 
over.  And  when  I  think  it  over,  I  realize  the  results  you 
threaten  me  with  are  only  probable.  In  spite  of  your 
desire  to  frighten  me,  you  have  been  compelled  to  admit 
that  my  marriage  will  quite  possibly  produce  no  ill  results 
for  my  wife. 

Doctor  [restraining  himself  with  difficulty^  Go  on. 
I  will  answer  you. 

George.  You  tell  me  that  your  drugs  are  powerful, 
and  that  for  the  catastrophes  you  speak  of  to  happen  I 
must  be  one  of  the  five  exceptions  per  cent,  you  allow, 
and  that  my  wife  must  be  an  exception  too.  Now,  if  a 
mathematician  calculated  the  probabilities  of  the  case, 
tlie  chance  of  a  catastrophe  would  prove  so  small  that, 
when  the  slight  probability  of  a  disaster  was  set  against 
the  certainty  of  all  the  disappointments  and  the  un- 
happiness  and  perhaps  the  tragedies  which  my  break- 
ing off  the  match  would  cause,  he  would  undoubtedly 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  I  was  right  and  you  were 
wrong.  After  all,  mathematics  is  more  scientific  than 
medicine. 

Doctor.  Ah,  you  think  so!  Well,  you  are  wrong. 
Twenty  cases  identical  with  yours  have  been  carefully 


28  Damaged  Goods  Act  I 

observed  —  from  the  beginning  to  the  end.  Nineteen 
times  —  you  hear,  nineteen  times  in  twenty  —  the  woman 
was  contaminated  by  her  husband.  You  think  that  the 
danger  is  negligible:  you  think  you  have  the  right  to 
make  your  wife  take  her  chance,  as  you  said,  of  being 
one  of  the  exceptions  for  which  we  can  do  nothing ! 
Very  well:  then  you  shall  know  what  you  are  doing. 
You  shall  know  what  sort  of  disease  it  is  that  your  wife 
will  have  five  chances  per  cent,  of  contracting  without 
so  much  as  having  her  leave  asked.  Take  this  book  — 
it  is  my  master's  work  —  here,  read  for  yourself,  I 
have  marked  the  passage.  You  won't  read  it.''  Then  I 
will.  [He  reads  passionately]  "  I  have  seen  an  un- 
fortunate young  woman  changed  by  this  disease  into  the 
likeness  of  a  beast.  The  face,  or  I  should  rather  say, 
what  remained  of  it,  was  nothing  but  a  flat  surface 
seamed  with  scars." 

George.     Stop,  for  pity's  sake,  stop ! 

Doctor.  I  shall  not  stop.  I  shall  read  to  the  end. 
I  shall  not  refrain  from  doing  right  merely  for  fear 
of  upsetting  your  nerves.  [He  goes  on]  "  Of  the 
upper  lip,  which  had  been  completely  eaten  away,  not 
a  trace  remained."  There,  that  will  do.  And  you  are 
willing  to  run  the  risk  of  inflicting  that  disease  on  a 
woman  whom  you  say  you  love,  though  you  cannot  sup- 
port even  the  description  of  it  yourself?  And  pray,  from 
whom  did  that  woman  catch  syphilis?  It  is  not  I  who 
say  all  this:  it  is  this  book,  "  From  a  man  whose  crimi- 
nal folly  was  such  that  he  was  not  afraid  to  enter  into 
marriage  in  an  eruption,  as  was  afterwards  established, 
of  marked  secondary  symptoms,  and  who  had  further 
thought  fit  not  to  have  his  wife  treated  for  fear  of 
arousing  suspicion."  What  that  man  did  is  what  you 
want  to  do. 

George.  I  should  deserve  all  those  names  and  worse 
still,  if  I  were  to  be  married  with  the  knowledge  that 


Act  I  Damaged  Goods  29 

my  marriage  would  bring  about  such  horrors.  But  I 
do  not  believe  that  it  would.  You  and  your  masters 
are  specialists.  Consequently  you  fix  the  whole  of  your 
attention  on  the  subject  of  your  studies,  and  you  think 
that  these  dreadful,  exceptional  cases  never  have  enough 
light  thrown  on  them.  They  exercise  a  sort  of  fascina- 
tion over  you. 

Doctor.     I  know  that  argument. 

George.  Let  me  go  on,  I  beg.  You  have  told  me 
that  one  man  in  every  seven  is  a  syphilitic,  and  further 
that  there  are  a  hundred  thousand  such  men  going  about 
the  streets  of  Paris  in  perfect  health. 

Doctor.  It  is  the  fact  that  there  are  a  hundred  thou- 
sand who  are  not  for  the  moment  visibly  affected  by 
their  complaint.  But  thousands  have  passed  through 
our  hospitals,  victims  to  the  most  frightful  ravages 
that  our  poor  bodies  can  endure.  You  do  not  see 
them:  they  do  not  exist  for  you.  Again,  if  it  were 
only  yourself  who  was  in  question,  you  might  take  that 
line  well  enough.  But  what  I  affirm,  and  repeat  with  all 
the  strength  of  my  conviction,  is  that  you  have  no  right 
to  expose  a  human  being  to  this  appalling  chance.  The 
chance  is  rare,  I  know:  I  know  still  better  how  terrible 
it  is.     What  have  you  to  say  now.'' 

George.  Nothing.  I  suppose  you  are  right.  I 
don't  know   what  to   think. 

Doctor.  Is  it  as  if  I  were  forbidding  you  ever  to 
marry  when  I  forbid  you  to  marry  now?  Is  it  as  if  I 
were  telling  you  that  you  will  never  be  cured?  On  the 
contrar}^,  I  give  you  every  hope.  Only  I  ask  a  delay 
of  three  or  four  years,  because  in  that  time  I  shall  be 
able  to  ascertain  whether  you  are  one  of  those  unhappy 
wretches  for  whom  there  is  no  hope,  and  because  during 
that  time  you  will  be  a  source  of  danger  to  your  wife 
and  children.  The  children:  I  have  not  spoken  to  you 
about  them.      ^Very   gently   and  persuasively]      Come, 


30  Damaged  Goods  Act  I 

my  dear  sir,  you  are  too  young  and  too  generous  to  be 
insensible  to  pity.  There  are  things  that  cannot  fail  to 
move  you:  it  is  incredible  that  I  should  not  be  able 
to  touch  or  to  convince  you.  Indeed,  I  feel  most  deeply 
for  you ;  but  on  that  account  I  implore  you  all  the  more 
earnestly  to  consider  what  I  say.  You  have  admitted 
you  have  no  right  to  expose  your  wife  to  such  torture: 
but  there  is  not  only  your  wife  —  there  are  her  children, 
your  children,  whom  you  may  contaminate,  too.  For 
the  moment  I  will  not  think  of  you  or  of  her:  it  is  in 
the  name  of  those  innocent  little  ones  that  I  appeal  to 
you;  it  is  the  future  of  the  race  that  I  am  defending. 
Listen  to  me.  Of  the  twenty  marriages  I  spoke  of  only 
fifteen  produced  children.  They  produced  twenty-eight. 
Do  you  know  how  many  of  them  survived  ?  Three :  three 
out  of  twenty-eight.  Above  all  else  syphilis  is  a  child- 
murderer.  Ah,  yes  !  Every  year  produces  a  fresh  massa- 
cre of  the  innocents.  Herod  still  reigns  in  France  and 
all  the  world  over.  And  though  it  is  my  business  to 
preserve  life,  I  tell  you  that  those  who  die  are  the 
lucky  ones.  If  you  want  to  see  the  children  of  syphilitic 
parents,  go  round  the  children's  hospitals.  We  know 
the  type:  it  has  become  classical.  Any  doctor  can 
pick  them  out  from  the  rest;  little  creatures  old  from 
their  birth,  stamped  with  the  marks  of  every  human 
infirmity  and  decay.  You  will  find  children  with  every 
kind  of  affliction:  hump-backed,  deformed,  club-footed, 
hare-lipped,  ricketty,  with  heads  too  big  and  bodies  too 
small,  with  congenital  hip-disease.  A  large  proportion 
of  all  these  are  the  victims  of  parents  who  were  married 
in  ignorance  of  what  you  now  know.  If  I  could,  I 
would  cry  it  aloud  from  the  house-tops.  [A  slight 
pause^  I  have  told  you  all  this  without  the  slightest 
exaggeration.  Think  it  over.  Weigh  the  pro  and  the 
con:  tot  up  the  sum  of  possible  suffering  and  certain 
misery.     But  remember  that  on  the  one  side   is  your 


Act  I  Damaged  Goods  31 

own  suffering  —  and  on  the  other  the  suffering  of  other 
people.     Remember  that.     Distrust  yourself. 

George.  Very  well.  I  give  in.  I  will  not  be  mar- 
ried. I  will  invent  some  excuse.  I  will  get  it  put  off 
for  six  months.      More   than  that  is   impossible. 

Doctor.     I  must  have  three  years  at  least,  if  not  four. 

George.  No,  no  !  For  pity's  sake !  You  can  cure  me 
before   that. 

Doctor.    No,  no,  no  ! 

George.  Yes,  you  can.  I  implore  you.  Science 
can  do  everything. 

Doctor.  Science  is  not  God  Almighty.  The  day  of 
miracles  is  past. 

George.  Oh,  you  could  if  you  wanted  to.  I  know 
you  could.  Invent  something,  discover  something !  Try 
some  new  treatment  on  me.  Double  the  doses !  Give 
me  ten  times  the  ordinary  ones,  if  you  like !  I  '11  stand 
anything,  absolutely !  Only  there  must  be  some  way  of 
curing  me  in  six  months.  Look  here,  I  can't  be  respon- 
sible for  myself  after  that.  For  the  sake  of  my  wife 
and  her  children,  do  something. 

Doctor.     Nonsense ! 

George.  If  only  you  '11  cure  me,  I  don't  know  what 
I  won't  do  for  you.  I  '11  be  grateful  to  you  all  my  life. 
I  '11  give  you  half  my  fortune.  For  God's  sake,  do  some- 
thing for  me ! 

Doctor.  You  want  me  to  do  more  for  you  than  for 
all    the    rest.'' 

George.     Yes. 

Doctor.  Let  me  tell  you,  sir,  that  everyone  of  our 
patients,  whether  he  is  the  richest  man  in  the  land  or 
the  poorest,  has  everything  done  for  him  that  we  can 
do.  We  have  no  secrets  in  reserve  for  the  rich  or  for 
people  who  are  in  a  hurry  to  be  cured. 

George.     Good-bye,  doctor. 

Doctor.     Good-day. 


ACT    II 

George's  study.  To  the  left  a  window.  In  front  of 
the  window  a  desk  of  moderate  size,  facing  away  from 
the  audience,  and  a  writing-chair.  On  the  desk  a  tele- 
phone. To  the  right  of  the  desk  an  arm-chair,  a  small 
table  with  a  work-box  and  embroidery,  and  between  the 
window  and  the  footlights  a  deep  easy-chair.  At  the 
back  a  dainty  bookcase,  and  in  front  of  it  a  pretty  table 
with  flowers.  At  the  back,  to  the  right,  a  door,  and, 
nearer,  a  piano  and  a  music-stool.  To  the  left  another 
door.     Two  small  chairs. 

Henriette  is  sitting  by  the  small  table  and  working 
at  a  baby's  cap.  After  a  moment  she  holds  it  up  on  her 
hand. 

Henriette.  Another  little  cap  to  send  to  nurse. 
How  sweet  my  little  Germaine  will  look  in  it !  Come, 
sweetheart,  laugh  at  mother !  Oh,  my  love !  \_She 
kisses  the  cap  and  goes  on  working^. 

George   enters  at   the   back. 

George  [opening  the  door  and  taking  off  his  coat  in 
the  hall]  Hullo!  Are  you  there?  Are  you  there?  Ha, 
ha,  ha ! 

Henriette  [rising  gaily]  Oh,  you  know  I  recog- 
nized your  voice. 

George.  What  a  story !  [Kissing  her]  Poor  little 
darling !  —  was  she  taken  in  ?  —  poor  little  woman  !  Ha, 
ha,  ha ! 

Henriette   [laughing  too]     Don't  laugh  like  that ! 

George.      "  Hullo !     Hullo !     Madame    George    Du- 
32 


Act  II  Damaged  Goods  33 

pont?  "  [Imitating  a  woman's  timid  voice']  "  Yes,  yes; 
I  am  here !  "  I  could  feel  you  blushing  at  the  end  of  the 
wire. 

Henriette  [laughingl  I  did  n't  say  "  I  am  here  "  in 
that  voice.     I  simply  answered  "  Yes." 

George.  "  Hullo !  Madame  George  Dupont.  Is 
George  there  ?  [Laughing]  You  were  taken  in !  You 
can't  say  you  weren't!  [In  the  ■woman's  voice] 
"George  is  out.  Who  is  it  speaking  to  me?"  I  could 
hardly  keep  it  up.  "  Me  —  Gustave."  You  thought  it 
was,  too. 

Henriette.  What  is  there  astonishing  in  your  friend 
Gustave  telephoning? 

George.  And  when  I  added  [imitating  Gustave's 
voice]  "  How  are  you  this  morning,  dearest?  "  you  gave 
a  "What?"  all  flustered,  like  that:    "What?" 

Henriette.     Yes;    but  then  I  guessed  it  was  you. 

George.  I  went  into  fits.  What  a  lark !  [He  sits 
down  in  front  of  her  on  the  arm  of  the  chair  close  to 
the  fireplace  and  watches  her  happily]. 

Henriette  [sitting  down  and  returning  his  glance] 
What  a  funny  little  fellow  you  are ! 

George.     Me  ? 

Henriette  [gaily]  Do  you  think  I  don't  under- 
stand you,  after  knowing  you  for  fifteen  years  and  being 
married  to  you  a  twelvemonth? 

George  [curious]  Ah,  well !  go  on.  Say  what  you 
think  of  me. 

Henriette.  To  begin  with,  you  're  anxious.  Then 
you're  jealous.  And  suspicious.  You  spend  all  your 
time  in  making  a  tangle  of  things  and  then  inventing 
ingenious  ways  of  getting  out  of  it. 

George  [happy  to  hear  himself  talked  about]  So  that 's 
what  you  think  of  me?  Go  on,  let  us  have  some 
more. 

Henriette.     Isn't  it  true? 


34)  Damaged  Goods  Act  II 

George  [admitting  it  with  a  laugh]     Well? 

Henriette.  Was  n't  it  a  trap  that  you  set  for  me 
this  morning? 

George   [in  the  same  tone]     No. 

Henriette.  Yes;  you  wanted  to  be  sure  that  I  had 
not  gone  out.  You  asked  me  not  to  go  to  the  Louvre 
to-day. 

George  [innocently]     So  I  did. 

Henriette.  See  how  suspicious  you  are,  even  of 
me. 

George.     No;   not  of  you. 

Henriette.  Yes,  you  are.  But  you  have  always 
been,  so  I  don't  mind.  And  then  I  know  at  the  bottom 
you  feel  things  so  keenly  that  it  makes  you  rather 
afraid. 

George  [seriously]  I  was  laughed  at  so  much  when 
I  was  a  boy. 

Henriette  [gaily]  Besides,  perhaps  you  have  rea- 
sons for  not  having  too  much  confidence  in  men's  friend- 
ships with  their  friends'  wives.     Gay  deceiver ! 

George  [laughing]  I  should  like  to  know  what  you 
mean  bj'  that. 

Henriette.  Suppose  I  had  thought  it  was  Gustave 
and  answered:  "  Very  well,  thanks.  How  are  you, 
darling?  " 

George  [laughing]  Well,  it  is  a  trick  that  I  should  n't 
like  to  try  on  everyone.  [Changing  the  conversation^ 
By  the  way,  as  I  came  in,  Justin  spoke  to  me. 

Henriette.     Well? 

George.     He  says  he  wants  a  rise. 

Henriette.     He  has  chosen  a  likely  moment. 

George.  Has  n't  he  ?  I  asked  him  if  the  sale  of  my 
cigars  was  not  enough  for  him. 

Henriette.     How  did  he  take  that? 

George.  He  lost  his  temper  and  gave  warning. 
This  time  I  took  him  at  his  word.     He  's  simply  furious. 


Act  II  Damaged  Goods  35 

Henriette.     Good. 

George.  He  '11  go  at  the  end  of  the  month,  and  we 
shall  be  well  rid  of  him.  Mother  will  be  delighted.  I 
say,  she  has  n't  wired,  has  she .'' 

Henriette.     No. 

George.     Then  she  's  not  coming  back  till  to-morrow. 

Henriette.  If  she  had  her  way,  she  would  never 
leave  our  little  girl. 

George.     You  're  not  going  to  be  jealous,  are  you? 

Henriette.  I  'm  a  little  anxious.  Still,  if  there  had 
been  anything  the  matter,  I  know  your  mother  would 
have  telegraphed  to  us. 

George.  We  agreed  that  she  should,  if  there  was 
anything  since  yesterday. 

Henriette.  Perhaps  after  all  we  should  have  done 
better  to  keep  baby  with  us. 

George.     Oh,  are  you  going  to  begin  again? 

Henriette.  No,  no.  Don't  scold.  I  know  the  air  of 
Paris  did  n't  suit  her. 

George.  You  still  think  that  the  dust  of  my  papers 
was  better  for  her  than  the  air  of  the  country? 

Henriette  [latighing]     No;    I  don't. 

George.  Of  course,  there  is  the  square,  with  the  smell 
of  fried  fish  and  all  the  soldiers. 

Henriette.     Don't  tease.     I  know  you  are  right. 

George.  Aha !  I  'm  glad  you  admit  that  for  once  at 
least. 

Henriette.  Besides,  nurse  takes  good  care  of  her. 
She  is  a  good  girl. 

George.  And  how  proud  she  is  to  nurse  the  grand- 
daughter of  her  deputy. 

Henriette.  Father  is  not  deputy  for  that  district. 
All  the  same  — 

George.   All  the  same  he  is  deputy  for  the  department. 

Henriette.     Yes  ;    he  is. 

George.     Can't  you  hear  her  talking  to  her  friends? 


36  Damaged  Goods  Act  II 

[Imitating  the  nurse's  voice]  "  Have  n't  I  had  a  bit  of 
luck,  neither?  Yes,  ma'am;  she's  our  deputy's  daugh- 
ter's daughter,  she  is.  She  's  as  fat  as  a  calf,  the  little 
duck;  and  that  clever  with  it,  she  understands  every- 
thing.    That 's  not  a  bit  of  luck,  neither,  is  n't  it?  " 

Henriette  [laughing]  You  great  silly  !  She  does  n't 
talk  like  that  at  all. 

George.  Why  not  say  at  once  that  I  can't  do  imita- 
tions ? 

Henriette.     Now  I  did  n't  say  that. 

George.  As  if  mother  would  have  engaged  nurse  for 
us  if  she  had  not  been  absolutely  certain  that  baby  would 
be  well  looked  after.  Besides,  she  goes  down  to  see  her 
every  week,  and  she  would  have  brought  her  back 
already  — 

Henriette.    Twice  a  week,  sometimes. 

George.     Yes. 

Henriette.  Ah,  our  little  Germaine  knows  what  it  is 
to  have  a  granny  who  dotes  on  her. 

George.     Doesn't  she,  though? 

Henriette.  Your  mother  is  so  good.  You  know  I 
adore  her,  too. 

George.     Runs  in  the  family  ! 

Henriette.  Do  you  know,  the  last  time  we  went 
down  there  with  her  —  you  had  gone  out  somewhere  or 
other  — 

George.    To  see  that  old  sixteenth  century  chest. 

Henriette  [laughing]  Of  course,  your  wonderful 
chest. 

George.    Well,  what  were  you  going  to  say? 

Henriette.  You  were  out,  and  nurse  had  gone  to 
mass,  I  think. 

George.     Or  to  have  a  drink.     Go  on. 

Henriette.  I  was  in  the  little  room,  and  your  mother 
thought  she  was  alone  with  Germaine.  But  I  could  hear 
her:   she  was  telling  baby  all  sorts  of  sweet  little  things 


Act  II  Damaged  Goods  37 

—  silly  little  things,  but  so  sweet  that  I  felt  like  laugh- 
ing and  crying  at  the  same  moment. 

George.  Did  n't  she  call  her  "  my  own  little 
Saviour  " .'' 

Henriette.     Why,  were  you  listening.'' 

George.  No;  but  that's  what  she  used  to  call  me 
once  on  a  time. 

Henriette.  It  was  that  day  she  said  she  was  sure 
baby  had  recognized  her  and  laughed  at  her. 

George.  One  day,  too,  I  went  into  mother's  room 
here.  The  door  was  ajar,  so  that  she  didn't  hear  me 
come  in;  and  I  found  her  looking  at  one  of  the  little 
christening  slippers  she  wanted  baby  to  have.  You 
know. 

Henriette.    Oh,  yes. 

George.     And  then  she  took  it  up  and  kissed  it. 

Henriette.     What  did  you  say  to  her.'' 

George.  Nothing.  I  went  out  as  softly  as  I  could 
and  blew  a  kiss  to  her  from  the  other  side  of  the  door. 

Henriette.  When  nurse's  letter  came  the  other  day, 
it  did  n't  take  her  long  to  get  ready  and  catch  the  8.59. 

George.     However,  there  was  n't  anything  the  matter. 

Henriette.  No;  but  still  perhaps  she  was  right. 
Perhaps  I  should  have  gone  with  her. 

George.  Poor  innocent  little  Henriette !  You  believe 
everything  you  are  told.  Now  I  saw  at  once  what  was 
up.  The  nurse  simply  wanted  to  humbug  us  into  raising 
her  screw.  I  bet  she  did.  Look  here.  Will  you  bet  me 
she  didn't?  Come,  what  will  you  have.''  Look  here. 
I  bet  you  that  lovely  necklace  —  you  know,  the  one  with 
the  big  jaearl. 

Henriette.  No;  I  should  be  too  much  afraid  of 
winning. 

George  [laughing]  Silly!  I  believe  you  think  I 
don't  care  for  baby  as  much  as  you  do.  Why,  you  don't 
even  know  how  old  she  is  !   No,  no,  —  exactly !  Let 's  see. 


38  Damaged  Goods  Act  II 

Aha!  Ninety-one  days  and  eight  hours,  there!  [He 
laughs].  Ah,  when  she  can  get  on  by  herself,  then  we  '11 
have  her  back  with  us.     Six  months  more  to  wait. 

Henriette.  Six  months  is  a  long  time  to  wait.  When 
I  think  that  if  you  had  not  put  off  our  marriage  for  six 
months,  we  should  have  her  back  now ! 

George.  I  have  told  you  over  and  over  again  that 
I  only  did  what  was  right.  Just  consider,  how  could 
I  marry  when  the  doctor  told  me  I  had  traces  of 
consumption  } 

Henriette.  Your  doctor  is  a  donkey.  As  if  you 
looked  like  a  consumptive  ! 

George.  Generally  speaking,  doctors  are  a  bit  that 
way,  I  grant. 

Henriette.  And  you  actually  wanted  to  wait  three 
or  four  years. 

George.  Yes ;  to  be  quite  certain  I  had  nothing 
wrong  with  my  lungs. 

Henriette.  You  call  me  innocent,  me !  And  here 
were  you,  just  because  a  doctor  — 

George.  But  you  know  it  seems  that  I  really  had  the 
beginning  of  some  bronchial  trouble.  I  used  to  feel 
something  when  I  breathed  rather  hard  —  like  that,  only 
a  little  harder.  There,  that 's  it.  There  was  a  sort  of 
heaviness  each  side  of  my  chest. 

Henriette.  It  was  n't  anything  to  put  off  our  mar- 
riage for. 

George  [getting  up]  Yes,  yes;  I  assure  you  I  was 
right.  I  should  have  been  wrong  to  expose  you  to  the 
chance  of  having  a  consumptive  husband.  No;  I  'm  not 
at  all  sorry  we  waited.  Still,  those  specialists  —  I  can 
afford  to  laugh  at  them  now.  If  I  knew  someone  now 
who  was  ill,  I  should  tell  him:  "My  dear  chap,  those 
bigwigs  at  forty  francs  a  consultation  —  well,  just  don't 
you  consult  them,  you  know !  " 

Henriette.    That  one  wanted  four  years  to  cure  you! 


Act  II  Damaged  Goods  39 

George.  Hang  it,  doctors  are  only  men.  After  all, 
they  must  live;  and  when  their  consultations  are  forty 
francs  apiece,  why,  the  more  the  merrier. 

Henriette.  And  some  quite  unknown  little  doctor 
cured  you  in  three  months  ! 

George.  Yes  ;  he  was  quite  unknown.  The  odd  thing 
is  I  have  absolutely  forgotten  his  address.  I  found  it  in 
the  paper,  I  remember.  I  know  vaguely  that  it  was 
somewhere  near  the  Halles ;  but  if  I  was  to  have  ray 
head  chopped  off  for  it,  I  could  n't  find  it  again.  Idi- 
otic, is  n't  it  ? 

Henriette.  Consequently,  Germaine  is  six  months 
less  old  than  she  ought  to  be. 

George.  What  of  that?  We  shall  keep  her  so  much 
the  longer.  She  will  be  married  six  months  later,  that 's 
all. 

Henriette.  Oh,  don't  speak  of  it.  It 's  odious  to 
think  even  now  that  we  shall  lose  her  some  day. 

George.  Ah !  I  can  see  myself  going  up  the  steps  of 
the  Madeleine  with  her  on  my  arm. 

Henriette.     Why  the  Madeleine? 

George.  I  don't  know.  She  '11  have  on  a  great  white 
veil  and  I  shall  have  an  order  in  my  buttonhole. 

Henriette.  Indeed !  Pray  what  will  you  have  done 
to  get  an  order? 

George.  I  don't  know,  but  I  shall  have  one.  Say 
what  you  like,  I  shall.  What  a  glorious  crowd  there  '11 
be! 

Henriette.     That 's  all  in  the  dim,  distant  future. 

George.     Ah,  yes. 

Henriette.  Yes,  happily.  [Getting  up]  Well,  do 
you  mind  if  I  go  and  pay  my  visits  now? 

George.  Run  along,  run  along.  I  shall  work  hard 
while  you  are  out.  Look  at  all  these  papers !  I  shall  be 
up  to  my  eyes  in  them  before  you  're  downstairs.  Good- 
bye. 


40  Damaged  Goods  Act  II 

Henriette.  Good-bye.  [She  kisses  him  and  goes 
out  at  the  back  by  the  right~\. 

George  lights  a  cigarette,  looks  at  himself  in  the 
glass,  and  throws  himself  into  the  easy-chair  to  the 
left,  humming  a  tune.  By  way  of  being  more  com- 
fortable, he  moves  away  the  writing-chair  and  puts 
his  feet  on  the  desk,  smoking  and  humming  in  perfect 
contentment.  Madame  Dupont  comes  in  by  the  door  on 
the  left. 

George  [getting  up]  Hullo!  Why,  mother!  We 
had  no  wire,  so  we  did  n't  expect  you  till  to-morrow. 
Henriette  has  just  gone  out.     I  can  call  her  back. 

Mme.  Dupont.  No;  I  did  not  want  Henriette  to  be 
here  when  I  came. 

George.     What's  the  matter? 

The  conversation  that  follows  is  broken  by  long 
silences. 

Mme.  Dupont.  I  have  brought  back  the  child  and 
the  nurse. 

George.     Is  baby  ill.'' 

Mme.  Dupont.     Yes. 

George.     What's  wrong  with  her? 

Mme.  Dupont.  Nothing  serious;  at  least  for  the 
moment. 

George.     We  must  send  for  the  doctor. 

Mme.  Dupont.     I  have  just  come  from  the  doctor's. 

George.  Good.  I  'm  not  going  out.  I  '11  wait  for 
him. 

Mme.  Dupont.     I  have  seen  him. 

George.     Ah,  you  found  him  in? 

Mme.  Dupont.  I  telegraphed  to  him  from  the 
country.     I  took  the  child  to  see  him. 

George.     It  was  so  urgent  as  that? 

Mme.  Dupont.  After  what  the  nurse's  doctor  had 
told  me,  I  wished  to  be  reassured  immediately. 

George.    And  after  all  there  is  nothing  serious? 


Act  II  Damaged  Goods  41 

Mme.  Dupont.     For  the  moment. 

George.  When  you  got  down  there,  how  did  you  find 
baby? 

Mme.  Dupont.  Fairly  well,  but  I  sent  for  the  doctor 
at  once. 

George.    What  did  he  say.'' 

Mme.  Dupont.  That  you  must  make  a  change;  that 
the  child  must  be  brought  up  on  the  bottle. 

George.     What  an  extraordinary  idea. 

Mme.  Dupont.  He  told  me  that  what  she  was  suffer- 
ing from  might  become  very  serious.  So  without  saying 
anything  to  nurse,  I  made  her  come  with  me  and  we  took 
the  train  back. 

George.     Well,  what  is  the  matter  with  the  child.'' 

Mme.  Dupont  [after  a  thoughtful  pause]  I  do  not 
know. 

George.     Didn't  you  ask  him? 

Mme.  Dupont.     Yes. 

George  [beginning  to  he  anxious]     Well? 
A  silence. 

Mme.  Dupont.    He  replied  evasively. 

George  [tonelessly]  He  probably  did  not  know  him- 
self. 

Mme.  Dupont  [after  a  silence]     Probably. 

During  xvhat  follows  they  avoid  looking  at  one  another. 

George.     But  our  own  doctor,  didn't  he  say — ? 

Mme.  Dupont.     It  was  not  to  him  that  I  went. 

George.  Ah !  [A  very  long  silence.  Then  lower] 
Why? 

Mme.  Dupont.  The  nurse's  doctor  had  so  terrified 
me. 

George.     Seriously  ? 

Mme.  Dupont.     Yes;   it  is  a  disease —  [Silence] 

George   [in  anguish]     Well? 

Mme.  Dupont.  I  asked  him  if  the  matter  was  too 
serious  for  our  own  doctor  to  deal  with. 


42  Damaged  Goods  Act  II 

George.    What  did  he  answer? 

Mme.  Dupont.  That  if  we  had  the  means  it  would 
be  preferable  to  see  a  specialist. 

George  [trying  to  pull  himself  together^  And  — 
where  did  he  send  you .'' 

Mme.  Dupont  [handing  him  a  visiting  card]     There. 

George.     He  sent  you  to  that  doctor.'' 

Mme.  Dupont.     Yes.     Do  you  know  him? 

George.  No  —  yes  —  I  think  I  have  met  him  —  I 
don't  know.     [Very  lorv]     My  God! 

Mme.  Dupont  [after  a  silence]  He  is  coming  to 
speak  to  you. 

George  [scarcely  daring  to  pronounce  the  words] 
Then  is  he  anxious  ? 

Mme.  Dupont.     No.     He  wants  to  speak  to  you. 

George.     He  wants  to  speak  to  me? 

Mme.  Dupont.    Yes. 

George   [resigning  himself]     Very  well. 

Mme.  Dupont.  When  he  saw  the  nurse^  whom  I  had 
left  in  the  waiting  room,  he  called  me  back  and  said: 
"  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  continue  attending  on  this 
child  unless  I  can  see  its  father  and  speak  to  him  at 
once."  I  answered  "  Very  well,"  and  gave  him  your 
address.     He  will  not  be  long. 

George  [to  himself  in  a  low  voice]  My  poor  little 
child ! 

Mme.  Dupont  [looking  at  him]  Yes;  she  is  a  poor 
little  child. 

George  [after  a  long  silence]     Mother  — 

Mme.  Dupont  [hearing  the  door  opened]  Hush! 
[A  maid  comes  in  and  speaks  to  her.  To  George]  It  is 
he!  [To  the  maid]  Show  him  in.  [To  George]  I 
shall  be  there  if  you  want  me. 

She  goes  out  by  the  left.     The  doctor  enters  by  the  right. 

Doctor  [to  the  maid]  You  will  let  me  know  here 
when  the  child  wakes  up,  will  you  not  ? 


Act  II  Damaged  Goods  43 

Maid.    Yes,  sir. 

She  goes  out. 

George  [leith  the  greatest  emotion^  Good-day,  doc- 
tor:  you  don't  recognize  me? 

Doctor  [simply :  more  discouraged  than  angry^  You! 
—  it  is  you !  You  married  and  had  a  child  after  all  I 
said  to  you?      [Almost  to  himself]      Scoundrel! 

George.     Let  me  explain. 

Doctor.  I  can  listen  to  no  explanation  of  what  you 
have  done. 

A  silence. 

George  [imploring  him]  You  will  look  after  my  little 
girl  all  the  same,  won't  you? 

Doctor  [shrugging  his  shoulders.     Low]     Fool ! 

George  [not  hearing]  I  could  only  get  my  marriage 
put  off  six  months. 

Doctor.  Enough,  enough !  That  is  not  my  business. 
I  was  wrong  even  to  show  you  my  indignation.  I  should 
have  left  you  to  judge  yourself.  I  am  here  only  con- 
cerned with  the  present  and  the  future,  with  the  child 
and  with  the  nurse. 

George.     She  is  not  in  danger? 

Doctor.  The  nurse  is  in  danger  of  being  contami- 
nated. 

George.     No;  but  —  my  child? 

Doctor.  For  the  moment  the  symptoms  are  not  dis- 
quieting. 

George.  Thank  you.  [More  easily]  About  the 
nurse  —  you  were  saying  —  Do  you  mind  if  I  call  my 
mother?     She  knows  more  about  these  things  than  I  do. 

Doctor.     As  you  please. 

George  [going  to  the  door  and  coming  back  m,uch 
moved]  There  is  one  thing  I  should  like  to  ask  you. 
Could  you  contrive  that  no  one  —  my  wife  —  should 
know  what  has  happened?  If  my  poor  wife  knew  that 
it  was  I  who  was  the  cause  —  It  is  for  her  sake  that  I 
beg  you.    She  is  not  to  blame. 


44  Damaged  Goods  Act  II 

Doctor.  I  promise  jou  that  I  will  do  everything  in 
my  power  to  save  her  from  learning  the  real  nature  of 
the  child's  illness. 

George.     Oh,  thank  you  !    Thank  you  ! 

Doctor.  You  need  not.  If  I  tell  lies,  it  will  be  for 
her  sake  and  not  for  yours. 

George.     And  my  mother? 

Doctor.     Your  mother  knows  the  truth. 

George.     But  — 

Doctor.  Please,  please.  We  have  many  very  serious 
matters  to  discuss. 

George  goes  to  the  door  and  brings  in  his  mother. 
She  bows  to  the  doctor,  makes  a  sign  to  him  to  be  seated 
in  the  arm-chair  near  the  fireplace,  and  sits  down  herself 
on  the  chair  near  the  little  table.  George  takes  a  seat 
to  the  left  in  front  of  the  desk. 

Doctor.  I  have  written  a  prescription  for  the  child 
which  will,  I  hope,  improve  its  condition  and  prevent 
any  fresh  disorders.  But  my  duty,  and  yours,  does  not 
stop  there.  If  it  is  not  too  late,  the  health  of  the  nurse 
must  be  protected. 

Mme.  Dupont.     Tell  us  what  we  must  do. 

Doctor.     She  must  stop  giving  milk  to  the  child. 

Mme.  Dupont.  You  mean  that  we  must  change  the 
nurse .'' 

Doctor.  No.  I  mean  that  the  child  cannot  continue 
to  be  fed  at  the  breast  either  by  this  nurse  or  by  any 
healthy  nurse. 

Mme.  Dupont.     Why? 

Doctor.  Because  the  child  would  communicate  its 
complaint  to  the  person  who  gave  it  milk. 

Mme.  Dupont.  But,  doctor,  if  the  baby  is  brought  up 
on  the  bottle  it  will  die. 

George  [breaking  into  sobs]  Oh,  my  poor  little  girl! 
Oh,  my  God !   it 's  me  !     Oh  !   oh  ! 

Doctor.     Careful  treatment,  with  sterilized  milk  — 


Act  II  Damaged  Goods  45 

Mme.  Dupont.  That  may  succeed  with  healthy  chil- 
dren, but  at  the  age  of  three  months  a  sickly  child  such 
as  ours  cannot  be  fed  by  hand.  Such  a  child  has  all  the 
more  need  of  being  fed  at  the  breast.     That  is  true.'' 

Doctor.     Yes;    but  — 

Mme.  Dupont.  In  that  case  you  will  realize  that 
between  the  life  of  the  child  and  the  health  of  a  nurse 
I  have  no  choice. 

George   [sobbing]     Oh  !    oh  !  oh  ! 

Doctor.  Your  affection  leads  you  to  express  an  in- 
credible sentiment.  But  it  is  not  for  you  to  choose.  I 
shall  forbid  the  child  to  be  brought  up  at  the  breast.  The 
health  of  this  woman  does  not  belong  to  you. 

Mme.  Dupont.  Nor  the  life  of  our  child  to  you.  If 
there  is  one  way  to  save  its  life,  it  is  to  give  it  every  pos- 
sible attention,  and  you  want  me  to  treat  it  in  a  way  that 
you  doctors  condemn  even  for  healthy  children.  My  little 
one !  You  think  I  will  let  her  die  like  that !  Oh,  I  shall 
take  good  care  she  does  not !  Neglect  the  one  single  thing 
that  can  save  her !  It  would  be  criminal !  As  for  the 
nurse,  we  will  indemnify  her.  We  will  do  everything  in 
our  power,  everything  but  that.  No,  no,  no !  Whatever 
can  be  done  for  our  baby  shall  be  done,  cost  what  it  may. 
But  that  —  You  don't  consider  what  you  are  asking. 
It  would  be  as  if  I  killed  my  child.  [Bursting  into 
tears]     Oh,  my  little  angel,  my  own  little  Saviour ! 

George  has  not  stopped  sobbing  since  he  first  began. 
At  his  mother's  last  words  his  sobs  become  almost  cries. 
His  anguish  is  pitiable  to  see. 

George.  Oh,  oh,  oh!  My  little  child!  My  little 
child !  Oh,  oh !  [In  an  undertone]  Oh,  what  a  scoun- 
drel I  am  !     What  a  criminal ! 

Doctor.  Calm  yourself,  madam,  I  beg.  You  will  not 
improve  matters  in  this  way.  Try  to  consider  them 
coolly. 

Mme.  Dupont.     You  are  right.     I  beg  your  pardon. 


46  Damaged  Goods  Act  II 

But  if  you  knew  how  much  this  child  is  to  me.  I  lost  one 
at  the  same  age.  I  am  old  and  widowed  —  I  did  not 
expect  to  live  to  see  my  grandchildren.  You  are  right. 
George,  be  calm  —  we  will  show  our  love  by  being  calm. 
Now  then,  we  will  talk  seriously  and  coldly.  But  I  warn 
you  that  you  will  not  succeed  in  making  me  consent  to 
any  but  the  very  best  conditions  for  the  child.  I  shall 
not  let  her  be  killed  by  being  taken  from  the  breast. 

Doctor.  This  is  not  the  first  time  I  have  found  my- 
self in  this  situation,  and  I  must  begin  by  telling  you 
that  parents  who  have  refused  to  be  guided  by  my 
advice  have  invariably  repented  of  it  most  bitterly. 

Mme.  Dupont.  The  only  thing  of  which  I  shall 
repent  — 

Doctor.  You  are  evidently  unaware  of  what  the  ra- 
pacity and  malice  of  peasants  such  as  this  nurse  are 
capable,  especially  against  those  of  superior  station.  In 
this  case,  moreover,  her  enmity  would  be  legitimate. 

Mme.  Dupont.     Oh!     What  can  she  do? 

Doctor.     She  can  bring  an  action  against  you. 

Mme.  Dupont.  She  is  far  too  stupid  to  think  of  such 
a  thing. 

Doctor.     Others  will  put  it  into  her  head. 

Mme.  Dupont.  She  is  too  poor  to  pay  the  expenses 
of  going  to  law. 

Doctor.  Then  you  propose  to  profit  by  her  ignorance 
and  her  poverty  .f*  Besides,  she  could  obtain  the  assist- 
ance of  the  court. 

Mme.  Dupont.     Never !     Surely,  never ! 

Doctor.  Indeed.''  For  my  part  I  know  at  least  ten 
such  cases.  In  every  case  where  the  fact  was  proved, 
judgment  was  given  against  the  parents. 

Mme.  Dupont.  Not  in  a  case  like  this !  Not  where 
the  life  of  a  poor  innocent  little  child  was  at  stake!  You 
must  be  mistaken ! 


Act  II  Damaged  Goods  47 

Doctor.  Many  of  the  facts  have  been  identical.  I 
can  give  you  the  dates. 

George  [rising]  I  have  the  law  reports  here.  [He 
takes  a  volume  and  hands  it  to  the  doctor], 

Mme.  Dupont.     It  is  needless. 

Doctor  [to  George]  You  can  convince  yourself.  In 
one  or  two  cases  the  parents  have  been  ordered  to  pay 
a  yearly  pension  to  the  nurse;  in  the  others  sums  of 
money  varying  from  three  to  eight  thousand  francs. 

Mme.  Dupont.  If  we  had  to  fight  an  action,  we 
should  retain  the  very  best  lawyer  on  our  side.  Thank 
heaven  we  are  rich  enough.  No  doubt  he  would  make  it 
appear  doubtful  whether  the  child  had  not  caught  this 
disease  from  the  nurse,  rather  than  the  nurse  from  the 
child. 

Doctor.  Allow  me  to  point  out  that  such  conduct 
would  be  atrocious. 

Mme.  Dupont.  Oh,  it  is  a  lawyer's  business  to  do 
such  things.  I  should  not  have  to  say  anything.  In  any 
case  you  may  be  sure  that  he  would  win  our  suit. 

Doctor.  And  have  you  considered  the  scandal  that 
would  ensue. 

George  [turning  to  a  page  in  the  reports]  Here  is 
the  judgment  you  were  speaking  of  —  six  thousand 
francs. 

Doctor.  You  can  make  Madame  Dupont  read  it 
afterwards.  Since  you  have  the  reports  there,  kindly 
give  me  the  volume  before  this.  [George  goes  again  to 
the  bookcase.  To  Madame  Dupont]  Have  you  thought 
of  the  scandal? 

George  [coming  hack]  But,  doctor,  allow  me  to  point 
out,  in  reports  of  this  kind  the  names  are  suppressed. 

Doctor.     They  are  not  suppressed  in  court. 

George.    True. 

Doctor.  Are  you  sure  that  no  paper  would  publish 
a  full  account  of  the  case? 


48  Damaged  Goods  Act  II 

M ME.  DuPONT.    Oh^  how  infamous  ! 

Doctor.  You  see  what  a  horrible  scandal  it  would  be 
for  you.     [George  nods]     A  catastrophe,  absolutely. 

George.  Particularly  for  a  notary  like  me.  [He 
goes  to  get  the  other  volume]. 

Mme.  Dupont.  We  will  prevent  her  from  bringing 
an  action.     We  will  give  her  what  she  wants. 

Doctor.  Then  you  will  expose  yourself  to  be  in- 
definitely blackmailed.  I  know  one  family  which  has 
paid  hush-money  of  this  kind  for  twelve  years. 

George.     We  could  make  her  sign  a  receipt. 

Doctor.     In  full  settlement  of  all  claims.'' 

George,     Exactly  so.     Here  is  the  volume. 

Mme.  Dupont.  She  would  be  only  too  glad  to  go 
back  to  her  people  with  enough  money  to  buy  a  little 
house  and  a  plot  of  land.  To  a  woman  of  her  position 
it  would  be  wealth. 

The  nurse  comes  in. 

Nurse.     Baby  's  waked  up,  sir. 

Doctor.  I  will  come  and  see  her.  [To  Madame  Du- 
pont]    We  will  finish  what  we  were  saying  presently. 

Mme.  Dupont.    Very  well.    Do  you  want  the  nurse? 

Doctor.     No,  thank  you. 

The  doctor  goes  out. 

Mme.  Dupont.  Nurse,  just  wait  a  minute.  I  want  to 
speak  to  you.  [In  an  undertone  to  her  son]  I  know 
how  we  can  manage.  If  we  warn  her  and  she  agrees  to 
stay,  the  doctor  will  have  nothing  more  to  say;   will  he? 

George.     I  suppose  not. 

Mme.  Dupont.  I  will  promise  her  two  thousand 
francs  when  she  goes  if  she  consents  to  stay  on  as  wet- 
nurse. 

George.     Is  that  enough,  do  you  think? 

Mme.  Dupont.  At  any  rate  I  will  try.  If  she  hesi- 
tates I  will  make  it  more. 

George.    All  right. 


Act  II  Damaged  Goods  49 

Mme.  Dupont  [turning  to  the  nurse^  Nurse,  you 
know  that  baby  is  a  little  ill? 

Nurse.     Oh,  no,  ma'am. 

Mme.  Dupont.    Indeed  she  is. 

Nurse.  I  've  looked  after  her  as  well  as  possible ;  I 
know  I  have,  ma'am. 

Mme.  Dupont.  I  do  not  say  you  have  not.  But  she 
is  ill:   the  doctors  say  so. 

Nurse,  That 's  a  fine  story !  As  if  doctors  were  n't 
always  finding  something,  so  that  you  may  n't  think  they 
don't  know  their  business ! 

Mme.  Dupont.  But  our  doctor  is  a  great  doctor;  and 
you  have  seen  yourself  that  baby  has  little  pimples. 

Nurse.  Oh,  ma'am,  that  's  nothing  but  the  heat  of  her 
blood.  Don't  you  worry  about  it,  I  tell  you  it 's  only  the 
strength  of  her  blood.  It  is  n't  my  fault.  I  've  always 
done  everything  for  her  and  kept  her  that  clean  and 
proper. 

Mme.  Dupont.     No  one  says  that  it  is  your  fault. 

Nurse.  Then  what  are  you  finding  fault  with  me 
about .''  Ah,  there  is  n't  anything  the  matter  with  her. 
The  pretty  little  darling,  she  's  a  regular  town  baby  she 
is,  just  a  bit  poorly;   but  she  's  all  right,  I  promise  you. 

Mme.  Dupont.  I  tell  you  she  is  ill:  she  has  a  cold 
in  her  head  and  there  are  sores  at  the  back  of  her  throat. 

Nurse.  Then  that 's  because  the  doctor  scratched  her 
with  the  spoon  he  put  into  her  mouth  by  the  wrong  end. 
And  if  she  has  a  little  cold,  I  don't  know  when  she  caught 
it,  I  'm  sure  I  don't:  I  always  keep  her  that  well 
wrapped  up,  she  has  three  thicknesses  of  things  on.  It 
must  have  been  when  you  came  the  time  before  last  and 
opened  all  the  windows  in  the  house. 

Mme.  Dupont.  But  I  tell  you  that  nobody  is  finding 
fault  with  you  at  all. 

Nurse.  Oh,  yes,  I  know.  That 's  all  very  well.  I  'm 
only  a  poor  country  girl. 


50  Damaged  Goods  Act  II 

Mme.  Dupont.    What  do  you  mean? 

Nurse.     Oh,  that 's  all  very  well,  it  is ! 

Mme.  Dupont.  But  I  have  told  you  over  and  over 
again  that  we  have  no  fault  to  find. 

Nurse  [sticking  to  her  idea]  I  never  expected  any 
unpleasantness  when  I  came  here.  [She  begins  to 
whimper], 

Mme.  Dupont.  We  have  no  fault  to  find  with  you. 
Only  we  want  to  warn  you,  you  may  catch  the  baby's 
illness  — 

Nurse  [sulkily']  Well,  if  I  do  catch  a  cold,  it  won't 
be  the  first  time  I  've  had  to  blow  my  nose,  I  suppose. 

Mme.  Dupont.     Perhaps  you  may  get  her  pimples. 

Nurse  [sneering]  Oh,  ma'am,  we  country  folks 
have  n't  got  nice,  delicate,  white  skins  like  Paris  ladies 
have.  When  you  have  to  work  in  the  fields  all  day, 
rain  or  shine,  you  don't  need  to  plaster  your  face  all 
over  with  cream,  I  can  tell  you.  No  offence  meant, 
but  if  you  want  to  find  an  excuse,  that  is  n't  much  of 
a  one. 

Mme.  Dupont.     What  do  you  mean.''     What  excuse? 

Nurse.     Oh,  yes,  I  know. 

Mme.  Dupont.  What  do  you  know? 

Nurse.     I  'm  only  a  poor  country  girl,  I  am. 

Mme.  Dupont.  I  have  not  the  slightest  idea  what 
you  mean. 

Nurse.      Oh,   I   know   what   I   mean. 

Mme.  Dupont.     Then  tell  me  what  you  mean. 

Nurse.     Oh,  what's  the  good? 

Mme.  Dupont.     Tell  me,  please.     I  insist! 

Nurse.     Oh,  very  well  — 

Mme.   Dupont.     Go  on. 

Nurse.  Oh,  all  right.  I  may  be  only  a  poor  coun- 
try girl,  but  I  'm  not  quite  so  stupid  as  that.  I  know 
what  it  is  you  want.  Just  because  master  's  cross  at 
your  having  promised  me  thirty  francs  a  month  more 


Act  II  Damaged  Goods  51 

if  I  came  to  Paris.  [Turning  to  George]  Well,  and 
what  do  you  expect?  Mustn't  I  have  my  own  little 
boy  looked  after?  And  hasn't  his  father  got  to  eat 
and  drink?     We're  only  poor  coxmtry  folks,  we  are. 

George.  You  're  making  a  mistake,  nurse.  There'  s 
nothing  at  all  the  matter.  My  mother  was  quite  right 
to  promise  you  the  thirty  francs  extra,  and  the  only 
thing  in  my  mind  is  that  she  did  not  promise  you 
enough.  Now  I  have  decided  when  baby  is  old  enough 
to  have  a  dry  nurse  and  you  leave  us,  just  to  show  how 
grateful  we  are,  to  give  you,  er  — 

Mme.  Dupont.  We  shall  make  you  a  present,  you 
understand,  over  and  above  your  wages.  We  shall  give 
you  five  hundred  francs,  or  perhaps  a  thousand.  That 
is,  of  course,  if  baby  is  in  perfectly  good  health. 

Nurse  [stupefied]  You  '11  give  me  five  hundred 
francs  —  for  myself  —  [Struggling  to  understand] 
But  you  have  n't  got  to.     We   did  n't  agree  to   that. 

Mme.   Dupont.      No. 

Nurse   [to  herself]     What's  up,  then? 

Mme.  Dupont.  It  is  simply  because  baby  will  re- 
quire more  attention.  You  will  have  rather  more 
trouble  with  her.  You  will  have  to  give  her  her  medi- 
cine and  so  on.     It  may  be  a  little  difficult  for  you. 

Nurse.  Ah,  I  see.  So  that  you  may  be  sure  I  shall 
look  after  her  well.  You  say  to  yourself:  "  Nurse  has 
an  interest  in  her."     I  see. 

Mme.  Dupont.     That  is  understood,  then? 

Nurse.      Yes,   ma'am. 

Mme.  Dupont.  Very  good.  You  will  not  come 
afterwards  and  complain  of  the  way  we  have  treated 
you.  We  have  warned  you  that  the  child  is  ill  and 
that  you  may  catch  her  illness.  To  make  up  for  that, 
and  because  you  will  have  more  trouble  with  her,  we 
will  give  you  five  hundred  francs  when  your  time  here 
is  over.     That  is  understood? 


52  Damaged  Goods  Act  II 

Nurse.     But  you  said  a  thousand   francs,  ma'am. 

Mme.  Dupont.     Very  well;    a  thousand  francs,  then. 

George  [passing  to  the  right  behind  the  other  two 
and  drawing  his  mother  aside'\  It 's  a  pity  that  we 
can't  get  her  to  sign  that. 

Mme.  Dupont  [to  the  nurse']  So  that  there  may  be 
no  misunderstanding  about  the  sum  —  you  see  I  forgot 
just  now  that  I  said  a  thousand  francs  —  we  will 
draw  up  a  little  paper  which  we  shall  sign  on  our 
side  and  you  will  sign  on  your  side. 

Nurse.     Very  good,  ma'am;    I  understand. 
The  doctor  comes  bacJc. 

Mme.  Dupont.  Here  is  the  doctor.  You  may  go, 
nurse;    that  is   all  right. 

Nurse.  Yes,  ma'am.  [T'o  herself]  What's  up, 
then  ?  A  thousand  francs  ?  What 's  the  matter  with 
the  baby.''  Has  she  got  something  bad,  I  wonder.'' 
[She  passes  to  the  left,  between  the  desk  and  window, 
and  goes  out]. 

Doctor.  The  condition  is  unchanged.  There  is 
no  need  for  anxiety.  [He  sits  down  at  the  desk  to 
'write  a  prescription]. 

Mme.  Dupont.  I  am  glad  to  tell  you,  doctor,  that 
you  can  now  devote  yourself  to  the  baby  and  the  nurse 
without  misgiving.  While  you  have  been  away  we 
have  informed  the  nurse  of  the  circumstances,  and 
agreed  with  her  that  she  shall  stay  with  us  in  return 
for  a  certain  sum  of  money. 

Doctor,  The  disease  which  the  nurse  will  almost 
infallibly  contract  in  giving  her  milk  to  the  child  is,  I 
fear,  too  serious  to  be  made  the  subject  of  a  bargain, 
however  large  the  sum  of  money.  She  might  be  com- 
pletely crippled,  even  if  she  did  not  die  of  it. 

Mme.  Dupont.     But  she  accepts ! 

Doctor.  It  is  not  only  that  she  would  be  rendered 
incapable   of   serving   in    future   as   wet   nurse   without 


Act  II  Damaged  Goods  53 

danger  to  the  infants  she  suckled.  The  results  of  the 
disease  to  herself  might  be  inconsiderable ;  but  at  the 
same  time,  I  repeat,  they  might,  in  spite  of  everything 
we  could  do,  cast  a  terrible  blight  upon  her  life. 

Mme.  Dupont.  But  I  tell  you  she  accepts !  She  has 
the  right  to  do  what  she  pleases. 

Doctor.  I  am  not  sure  that  she  has  the  right  to 
sell  her  own  health,  but  I  am  sure  that  she  has  not  the 
right  to  sell  the  health  of  her  husband  and  of  her  chil- 
dren. If  she  contracts  this  disease,  she  will  almost 
certainly  communicate  it  to  both  of  them;  and,  further, 
the  life  and  health  of  any  children  she  might  after- 
wards have  would  be  gravely  endangered.  You  under- 
stand now  that  it  is  impossible  for  her  to  make  a 
bargain  of  this  kind.  If  the  mischief  is  not  already 
done,  every  effort  must  be  made  to  prevent  it. 

Mme.  Dupont.  You  say:  "  If  the  mischief  is  not 
done."      Can  you  not  be  certain? 

Doctor.  Not  as  yet.  There  is  a  period  of  five  or 
six  weeks  between  the  moment  of  contracting  the 
disease  and  the  appearance  of  its   first  symptoms. 

JNIme.  Dupont.  You  think  of  nothing  but  the  nurse. 
You  do  not  think  of  our  poor  little  baby.  What  can 
we  do  ?     We  cannot  let  her  die  ! 

George.     We  can't,  we  can't ! 

Doctor.  Neither  can  you  endanger  the  life  of  this 
woman. 

Mme.  Dupont.     You  are  not  defending  our  interests ! 

Doctor.     I  am  defending  those  of  the  weakest. 

Mme.  Dupont.  If  we  had  called  in  our  own  doctor, 
he  would  have  taken  our  side. 

Doctor.  I  doubt  it.  [Rising^  But  there  is  still 
time  to  send  for  him. 

George.     Mother !     I  beg  you  not  to  go,  doctor. 

Mme.  Dupont  [stipplicating  him]  Oh,  don't  aban- 
don us  !    You  can  make  allowances  —    If  you  only  knew 


54  Damaged  Goods  Act  II 

what  this  child  was  to  me !  I  feel  as  if  I  had  staved  off 
death  to  wait  for  it.  Have  pity  on  us !  Our  poor  little 
girl !  —  she  is  the  weakest,  surely.  Have  pity  on  her ! 
When  you  saw  her  tiny,  suffering  body,  did  you  not 
feel  any  pity  for  her  ?     Oh,  I  beseech  you ! 

George.     Doctor,  we  implore  you ! 

Doctor.  Indeed  I  pity  her  and  I  will  do  everything 
in  my  power  to  save  her.  But  you  must  not  ask  me  to 
sacrifice  the  health  of  a  young  and  strong  woman  to 
that  of  a  sickly  infant.  I  will  be  no  party  to  giving  this 
woman  a  disease  that  would  embitter  the  lives  of  her 
whole   family,  and  almost  certainly   render  her   sterile. 

Mme.  Dupont  [in  a  stifled  voice]  Oh,  are  there  not 
enough  of  these  peasants  in  the  world ! 

Doctor.      I    beg   your   pardon.^ 

Mme.  Dupont  [in  the  same  tone]  I  said  that  if  she 
had  no  more  children,  there  would  only  be  the  fewer  to 
be  unhappy. 

Doctor.  It  is  useless  for  us  to  continue  this  dis- 
cussion. 

Mme.  Dupont  [rousing  herself]  I  shall  not  take 
your  advice !     I  shall  not  listen  to  you ! 

Doctor.  There  is  one  here  already  who  regrets  not 
having  done  so. 

George.    Yes ;   O,  God,  yes  ! 

Mme.  Dupont  [more  and  more  exalted]  I  do  not  care ! 
I  do  not  care  if  I  am  punished  for  it  in  this  world  and 
the  next!  If  it  is  a  crime,  if  it  is  a  sin,  I  accept  all  the 
responsibility,  however  heavy  it  may  be !  Yes,  yes  !  If 
it  must  be,  I  will  lose  my  soul  to  save  our  child's  life, 
our  little  one's  !  I  know  that  hell  exists  for  the  wicked: 
that  is  one  of  my  profoundest  convictions.  Then  let  God 
judge  me  —  if  I  am  damned,  so  much  the  worse  for  me! 

Doctor.  I  shall  not  allow  you  to  take  that  responsi- 
bility. To  enable  you  to  do  so,  my  consent  would  be 
necessary,  and  I  refuse  it. 


Act  II  Damaged  Goods  55 

Mme.  Dupont.     What  do  you  mean? 

Doctor.  I  shall  speak  to  the  nurse  and  give  her  the 
fullest  particulars^  which  I  am  convinced  you  have  not 
done. 

Mme.  Dupont.  What !  you,  a  doctor,  would  betray 
family  secrets  entrusted  to  you  in  the  strictest  confidence ! 
Secrets  of  this  kind  ! 

Doctor.  The  betrayal,  if  it  is  one,  is  forced  on  me 
by  the  law. 

Mme.  Dupont.  The  law !  I  thought  you  were  bound 
to  secrecy  ? 

Doctor  [turning  the  pages  of  the  volume  of  reports^ 
Not  in  this  case.  Here  is  a  judgment  given  by  the  court 
at  Dijon:  I  thought  that  I  might  have  to  read  it  to  you. 
[Reading^  "  A  doctor  who  knowingly  omits  to  inform  a 
nurse  of  the  dangers  incurred  by  her  in  giving  milk  to  a 
syphilitic  child  may  be  held  responsible  in  damages  for 
the  results  caused  by  her  ignorance."  You  see  that  the 
law  is  against  you,  as  well  as  your  conscience ;  and  I  may 
add  that,  even  were  it  not  so,  I  should  not  allow  you  to 
be  led  by  your  feelings  into  committing  such  a  crime.  If 
you  do  not  consent  to  have  the  child  fed  by  hand,  I  shall 
either  speak  to  the  nurse  or  give  up  the  case. 

Mme.  Dupont.  You  dare  to  threaten  us !  Oh,  you 
know  the  power  that  your  knowledge  gives  you !  You 
know  what  need  we  are  in  of  your  services,  and  that  if  you 
abandon  us  perhaps  our  child  will  die !  And  if  we  give 
way  to  you,  she  will  die  all  the  same!  \Wildly']  O,  my 
God,  my  God,  why  cannot  I  sacrifice  myself?  Oh,  if  only 
my  aged  body  could  take  the  place  of  this  woman's  young 
flesh,  and  my  poor  dry  breasts  give  to  our  child  the  milk 
that  would  save  her  life!  With  what  joy  I  would  give 
myself  up  to  this  disease !  With  what  rapture  I  would 
suffer  the  most  horrible  ravages  that  it  could  inflict  on 
me !  Oh,  if  I  could  but  offer  myself,  without  fear  and 
without  regret! 


56  Damaged  Goods  Act  II 

George    [flings  himself  into  her  arms  with  sobs  and 
cries  of]     Mother!   Mother!   Mother! 
They  weep. 

Doctor  [to  himself,  moved]  Poor  people!  Poor 
people ! 

Mme.  Dupont  [sitting  down  with  an  air  of  resignation'] 
Tell  us  what  we  must  do. 

Doctor.  Keep  the  nurse  here  as  dry-nurse  so  that  she 
may  not  carry  the  infection  elsewhere.  We  will  feed  the 
child  by  hand,  and  I  beg  you  in  all  sincerity  not  to  ex- 
aggerate the  danger  that  will  result  from  the  change.  I 
have  every  hope  of  restoring  the  baby  to  health  in  a  short 
space  of  time;  and  I  assure  you  that  I  will  use  every 
possible  effort  to  bring  about  a  happy  conclusion.  I  will 
call  again  to-morrow.     Good-day. 

Mme.  Dupont  [without  moving]     Thank  you,  doctor. 

George  [going  to  the  door  and  shaking  hands]  Thank 
you,  thank  you!  [The  doctor  goes  out.  George  comes 
back  and  goes  to  his  mother  with  outstretched  arms] 
Mother ! 

Mme.  Dupont  [repulsing  him]     Let  me  be. 

George  [checking  himself]  Are  we  not  unhappy 
enough,  without  hating  one  another? 

Mme.  Dupont.  It  is  God  who  visits  upon  your  child 
the  sins  of  its  father. 

George  [raising  his  shoulders  gloomily]  You  believe 
that,  when  there  is  not  a  man  alive  so  wicked  and  unjust 
as  to  commit  such  an  act ! 

Mme.  Dupont.    Oh,  I  know  you  believe  in  nothing. 

George.     Not  in  that  kind  of  God. 

The  nurse,  who  comes  in  by  the  left  soon  after  the 
doctor  has  gone  out,  appears. 

Nurse.  If  you  please,  ma'am,  I  've  been  thinking  I 
wovild  rather  go  away  at  once,  and  only  have  the  five  hun- 
dred francs. 

Mme.  Dupont.  What  do  you  say?  You  want  to  leave 
us? 


Act  II  Damaged  Goods  57 

Nurse.     Yes,  ma'am. 

George.     But  ten  minutes  ago  you  did  n't  want  to. 

Mme.  Dupont.     What  has  hajapened.^ 

Nurse.     I  've  been  thinking. 

Mme.  Dupont.     Thinking!     About  what? 

Nurse.  Well,  I  want  to  go  back  to  my  baby  and  my 
husband. 

George.  But  ten  minutes  ago  —  There  must  be 
something  else. 

Mme.  Dupont.     Evidently  there  is  something  else. 

Nurse.     No,  ma'am. 

Mme.  Dupont.     But  there  must  be ! 

Nurse.  Wellj  then,  I  'm  afraid  that  Paris  does  n't 
suit  me. 

Mme.  Dupont.  How  can  you  tell  without  waiting  to 
try.? 

Nurse.     I  'd  rather  go  back  home  at  once. 

Mme.  Dupont.    At  least  tell  us  why. 

Nurse.     I  have  told  you.     I  've  been  thinking. 

Mme.  Dupont.     Wliat  about? 

Nurse.     I  've  been  thinking. 

Mme.  Dupont.  Oh,  don't  say  that  over  and  over 
again !  "  I  've  been  thinking,  I  've  been  thinking." 
What  have  you  been  thinking  about? 

Nurse.     About  everything. 

Mme.  Dupont.     Can't  you  tell  us  about  what? 

Nurse.     I  tell  you,  about  everything. 

Mme.  Dupont.     Idiot ! 

George  [stepping  in  front  of  his  mother'\  Let  me 
speak  to  her. 

Nurse.     I  know  we  're  only  poor  country  folk. 

George.  Listen  to  me,  nurse.  Just  now  you  were 
not  only  satisfied  with  your  wages,  but  you  were  afraid 
we  were  going  to  send  you  away.  In  addition  to  your 
wages  we  have  promised  to  give  you  a  large  sum  of 
money  at  the  end  of  your  time  here  —  and  now  you  want 


58  Damaged  Goods  Act  II 

to  leave  us,  at  once !  Come  now,  you  must  have  some 
sort  of  reason.  Has  anyone  been  doing  anything  to 
you? 

Nurse.    No,  sir. 

George.    Well,  then? 

Nurse.     I  've  been  thinking. 

George  [ea:asperated]  Don't  go  on  repeating  that 
silly  thing!  What  do  you  mean  by  it?  [Gently]  Come, 
come  !  Tell  me  why  you  want  to  go  away.    [Silence]    Eh? 

Nurse.     I  have  told  you. 

George.     One  might  as  well  talk  to  a  block  of  wood. 

Mme.  Dupont  [coming  forward]  But  you  have  no 
right  to  leave  us. 

Nurse.     Yes ;    I  want  to  go  away. 

Mme.  Dupont.     I  shall  not  allow  you  to  go ! 

George.  Oh,  well,  let  her  go;  after  all  we  can't  keep 
her  by  force.  [To  the  nurse]  Since  you  want  to  go,  you 
shall  go ;  but  I  can  only  say  that  you  're  as  stupid  as  a 
cow. 

Nurse.     I  don't  mind  if  I  am. 

George.  I  shall  not  pay  you  for  the  month  that  has 
just  begun,  and  you  will  pay  for  your  own  railway  ticket. 

Nurse.     We  '11  see  about  that. 

George.  Yes ;  you  will  see.  You  '11  see  this  moment, 
too!  Be  off  with  you!  I  don't  want  you  any  longer. 
Now,  then! 

Mme.  Dupont.  Don't  fly  into  a  rage,  George.  [To 
the  nurse]     You  don't  mean  it  seriously,  nurse,  surely? 

Nurse.  I  would  rather  go  back  home  at  once  and  only 
have  my  five  hundred  francs. 

George.     What's  that? 

Mme.  Dupont.    What  are  you  talking  about? 

George.     Five  hundred  francs? 

Mme.  Dupont.    What  five  hundred  francs  ? 

Nurse.  The  five  hundred  francs  you  promised  me,  to 
be  sure ! 


Act  II  Damaged  Goods  59 

George.  We  never  promised  you  anything  of  the 
sort! 

Nurse.    Yes,  you  did. 

Mme.  Dupont.  Yes;  when  you  had  finished  nursing 
the  baby,  and  if  we  were  satisfied  with  you. 

Nurse.  No;  you  said  you  would  give  me  five  hundred 
francs  when  I  left.  Now  I  'm  going  away,  so  I  want 
them. 

Mme.  Dupont.  You  will  please  not  address  me  in 
that  tone;   you  understand.'' 

Nurse.  You  've  only  got  to  give  me  my  money  and  I 
shan't  say  a  word  more. 

George.  Oh,  that's  it,  is  it?  Very  well,  I  discharge 
you  on  the  spot.     Now,  then,  be  off  with  you ! 

Mme.  Dupont.     I  should  think  so,  indeed. 

George.    Off  you  go  ! 

Nurse.     Give  me  my  five  hundred  francs. 

George  \_pointing  furiously  at  the  door^  Take  your 
blasted  carcase  out  of  this!     Do  you  hear? 

Nurse.  Hullo,  hullo !  You  speak  to  me  a  bit  more 
politely;   can't  you? 

George.  Will  you  get  out  of  this,  or  have  I  got  to 
send  for  the  police  ? 

Nurse.    The  police!    What  for,  eh,  what  for? 

George.    To  chuck  you  out,  you  — 

Nurse.  Well,  and  what  am  I  ?  I  'm  only  a  country 
girl,  I  am.     I  may  be  a  bit  stupid  — 

Mme.  Dupont.  Stupid !  I  should  think  you  were. 
You  have  no  more  brains  than  a  mule. 

Nurse.     I  may  be  stupid,  but  I  'm  not  — 

Mme.  Dupont  [^interrupting]  You  have  no  more 
heart  than  a  stone.     You  are  a  wicked  woman. 

George.     You  're  no  better  than  a  thief. 

Nurse.    Oh,  a  thief  am  I  ?     I  should  like  to  know  why. 

George.  Because  you  're  trying  to  get  money  that 
is  n't  yours. 


60  Damaged  Goods  Act  II 

Mme.  Dupont.  Because  you  are  deserting  our  baby. 
You  are  a  wicked  woman. 

George.  Do  you  want  me  to  put  you  out?  [He  takes 
her  by  the  arm^. 

Nurse.  Oh,  that's  it,  is  it.''  So  you  want  me  to  tell 
you  why  I  'm  going? 

George.     Now,  then,  out  with  it. 

Mme.  Dupont.    Well,  why  is  it? 

Henriette  enters  at  the  hack.  In  the  noise  of  the 
quarrel  no  one  perceives  her. 

Nurse.  Very  well,  then.  I  'm  going  away  because 
I  don't  want  to  catch  your  beastly  diseases  here. 

Mme.  Dupont.     Be  quiet,  will  you? 

George.     Shut  up,  can't  you? 

Nurse.  Oh,  you  need  n't  be  afraid ;  everyone  knows 
about  it.  Justin  listened  at  the  door  to  what  your  doctor 
was  saying  and  told  me  what  was  up.  Oh,  I  may  be 
stupid,  but  I  'm  not  so  stupid  as  that.  I  'm  going  to  have 
my  money  and  get  out  of  this. 

George.     Shut  up ! 

Mme.  Dupont.  [taking  her  by  the  arm]  Hold  your 
tongue,  I  tell  you ! 

Nurse.  Let  me  go!  Let  me  go!  I  know  your  brat 's 
not  going  to  live.  I  know  it 's  rotten  through  and 
through  because  its  father  's  got  a  beastly  disease  that 
he  caught  from  some  woman  of  the  streets. 

Henriette,  "with  two  hoarse  cries,  falls  to  the  ground 
in  a  fit  of  nervous  sobbing. 

George  [rushing  towards  her^     My  God ! 

Henriette  eludes  him  and  pulls  herself  up  with  disgust, 
hatred,  and  horror  depicted  all  over  her. 

Henriette  [shrieking  like  a  mad  wvmany.  Don't 
touch  me !    Don't  touch  me ! 


ACT    III 

The  doctor's  room  in  the  hospital  "where  he  is  chief 
physician.  The  doctor  enters  with  a  medical  student, 
both  in  their  hospital  clothes,  and  takes  off  his  apron 
while  talking. 

Doctor.  By  the  way,  my  dear  fellow,  is  the  gentle- 
man we  passed  in  the  passage  waiting  for  you? 

Student.     No,  not  for  me. 

Doctor.  Then  it 's  my  deputy.  Do  you  know  this 
name?  Where  did  I  put  his  card?  [He  looks  on  his 
desk]     Ah,  here.     "  Loches,  deputy  for  Sarthes." 

Student.     That 's  the  famous  Loches. 

Doctor.  Ah,  yes,  deputy  for  Sarthes.  A  regular 
orator,  is  n't  he  ? 

Student.     Tremendous,  I  believe. 

Doctor.  That 's  the  man  we  want  then.  He  busies 
himself  a  great  deal  with  social  questions? 

Student.     Just  so. 

Doctor.  I  suppose  he  wants  to  start  an  agitation 
in  the  Chamber  in  favor  of  the  laws  for  which  we  have 
been  clamoring  so  long.  No  doubt  he  means  to  post  him- 
self up  first.  This  is  what  he  writes:  "  Loches,  deputy 
for  Sarthes,  presents  his  compliments,"  etc.  .  .  .  would 
be  much  obliged  if  I  would  see  him  to-morrow,  Sunday, 
not  for  a  consultation. 

Student.     It 's  very  likely  he  has  some  idea  of  the  sort. 

Doctor.  Now  that  I  have  a  deputy  I  will  post  him 
up,  I  can  assure  you.  That 's  why  I  have  had  the  case 
from  St.  Charles'  ward  and  number  28  brought  here. 

61 


62  Damaged  Goods  Act  III 

Student.    Shall  you  want  me? 

Doctor.     Not  at  all,  my  dear  fellow.     Good-bye. 

Student.     Good-bye,  sir. 

Doctor  [calling  to  the  other  as  he  goes  out]  Would 
you  mind  telling  them  to  show  in  M.  Loches.''  Thanks 
very  much.     Good-bye. 

The  student  goes  out. 

Laches  enters  and  bows.     The  doctor  motions  him  to  be 

seated. 

LocHES.  I  must  thank  you  for  being  so  kind  as  to 
receive  me  out  of  your  regular  hours.  The  business  that 
brings  me  here  is  peculiarly  distressing.  I  am  the 
father-in-law  of  M.  George  Dupont.  After  the  terrible 
revelation  of  yesterday,  my  daughter  has  returned  to 
me  with  her  child,  and  I  have  come  to  ask  you  to  be  so 
good  as  to  continue  attending  on  the  infant,  but  at  my 
house. 

Doctor.     Very  good. 

LocHEs.  Thank  you.  Now,  as  to  the  scoundrel  who 
is  the  cause  of  all  these  misfortunes. 

Doctor  [very  gently]  You  must  excuse  me,  but  that 
is  a  subject  on  which  I  cannot  enter.  My  functions  are 
only  those  of  a  physician. 

LocHES  [in  a  thick  voice]  I  ask  your  pardon,  but  I 
think  when  you  have  heard  me  for  a  moment,  you  will 
agree  with  me.  I  shall  not  trouble  you  with  the  plans  of 
vengeance  I  formed  yesterday,  when  my  poor  daughter 
fled  to  me  with  her  child  in  her  arms  after  the  revelation 
that  you  know.  You  will  excuse  me  if  I  speak  to  you  in 
this  state  —  oh,  I  can  scarce  contain  my  indignation !  I 
had  intended  to  talk  of  this  calmly :  but  when  I  think 
of  that  man  and  of  his  infamous  conduct  —  the  brutal, 
cowardly  blow  he  has  struck  at  me  and  mine  —  I  cannot 
control  myself  —  I  —  I  —  It  is  abominable  !  My 
daughter!  A  girl  of  twenty-two!  Twenty-two! 
A  silence. 


Act  III  Damaged  Goods  63 

Doctor.  I  understand  and  respect  your  feelings ; 
but,  believe  me,  you  are  not  in  a  fit  state  to  form  any 
decision  at  this  moment. 

LocHES  [with  an  effort]  Yes,  yes:  I  will  command 
myself.  All  last  night  I  spent  in  profound  reflection; 
and  after  rejecting  the  ideas  I  mentioned,  this  is  the 
conclusion  to  which  I  have  come  in  conjunction  with 
my  daughter:  we  desire  to  obtain  a  divorce  as  soon  as 
possible.  Consequently  I  have  come  to  ask  you  for  the 
certificate  which  will  be  the  basis  of  our  action. 

Doctor.     What  certificate? 

LocHEs.  A  certificate  attesting  the  nature  of  the 
disease  which  this  man  has  contracted. 

Doctor.  I  regret  that  I  am  unable  to  furnish  you 
with  such  a  certificate. 

LocHES.     How  is  that.'' 

Doctor.    The  rule  of  professional  secrecy  is  absolute. 

LocHES.  It  is  impossible  that  it  should  be  your  duty 
to  take  sides  with  a  criminal  against  his  innocent  victims. 

Doctor.  To  avoid  all  discussion,  I  may  add  that  even 
were  I  free,  I  should  refuse  your  request. 

LocHES.     May  I  ask  why.'' 

Doctor.  I  should  regret  having  helped  you  to  obtain 
a  divorce. 

LocHES.  Then  just  because  you  hold  this  or  that 
theorj'^,  because  your  profession  has  rendered  you  scep- 
tical or  insensible  to  the  sight  of  misery  like  ours,  my 
daughter  must  bear  this  man's  name  to  the  end  of  her 
life! 

Doctor.  It  would  be  in  your  daughter's  own  interest 
that  I  should  refuse. 

LocHES.  Indeed !  You  have  a  strange  conception  of 
her  interest. 

Doctor  [very  gently]  In  your  present  state  of  ex- 
citement you  will  probably  begin  to  abuse  me  before  five 
minutes  are  over.     That  will  not  disturb  a  man  of  my 


64  Damaged  Goods  Act  III 

experience,  but  you  see  why  I  refused  to  discuss  these 
subjects.  However,  since  I  have  let  myself  in  for  it,  I 
may  as  well  explain  my  position.  You  ask  me  for  a  cer- 
tificate in  order  to  prove  to  the  court  that  your  son-in- 
law  has  contracted  syphilis  ? 

LocHES.     Yes. 

Doctor.  You  do  not  consider  that  in  doing  so  you 
will  publicly  acknowledge  that  your  daughter  has  been 
exposed  to  the  infection.  The  statement  will  be  officially 
registered  in  the  papers  of  the  case.  Do  you  suppose 
that  after  that  your  daughter  is  likely  to  find  a  second 
husband  ? 

LocHES.     She  will  never  marry  again. 

Doctor.  She  says  so  now.  Can  you  be  sure  that  she 
will  say  so  in  five  or  in  ten  years  time?  Besides,  you 
will  not  obtain  a  divorce,  because  I  shall  not  furnish  you 
with  the  necessary  proof. 

LocHES.  I  shall  find  other  ways  to  establish  it.  I 
shall  have  the  child  examined  by  another  doctor. 

Doctor.  Indeed !  You  think  that  this  poor  little 
thing  has  not  been  unlucky  enough  in  her  start  in  life? 
She  has  been  blighted  physically:  you  wish  besides  to 
stamp  her  indelibly  with  the  legal  proof  of  congenital 
syphilis  ? 

LocHES.  So  when  the  victims  seek  to  defend  them- 
selves they  are  struck  still  lower !  So  the  law  provides 
no  arms  against  the  man  who  takes  an  innocent,  con- 
fiding young  girl  in  sound  health,  knowingly  befouls  her 
with  the  heritage  of  his  debauchery,  and  makes  her 
mother  of  a  wretched  mite  whose  future  is  such  that 
those  who  love  it  most  do  not  know  whether  they  had 
better  pray  for  its  life  or  for  its  immediate  deliverance! 
This  man  has  inflicted  on  his  wife  the  supreme  insult,  the 
most  odious  degradation.  He  has,  as  it  were,  thrust  her 
into  contact  with  the  streetwalker  with  whose  vice  he 
is  stained,  and  created  between  her  and  that  common 


Act  III  Damaged  Goods  65 

thing  a  bond  of  blood  to  poison  herself  and  her  child. 
Thanks  to  him,  this  abject  creature,  this  prostitute,  lives 
our  life,  makes  one  of  our  family,  sits  down  with  us  at 
table.  He  has  smirched  my  daughter's  imagination  as  he 
has  tarnished  her  body,  and  bound  up  for  ever  in  her 
mind  the  ideal  of  love  that  she  placed  so  high  with 
heaven  knows  what  horrors  of  the  hospital.  He  has 
struck  her  ph3'sically  and  morally,  in  her  dignity  and  her 
modesty,  in  her  love  and  in  her  child.  He  has  hurled 
her  into  the  depths  of  shame.  And  the  state  of  law 
and  opinion  is  such  that  this  woman  cannot  be  separated 
from  this  man  save  at  the  cost  of  a  scandal  which  will 
overwhelm  herself  and  her  child.  Very  well,  then,  I 
shall  not  ask  the  aid  of  the  law.  Last  night  I  wondered 
if  it  was  not  my  duty  to  go  and  shoot  down  that  brute 
like  a  mad  dog.  It  was  cowardice  that  prevented  me. 
Weakly  I  proposed  to  invoke  the  law.  Well,  since  the 
law  will  not  do  justice,  I  will  take  it  into  my  own  hands. 
Perhaps  his  death  will  serve  as  a  warning  to  others. 

Doctor  [putting  aside  his  hat]  You  will  be  tried  for 
your  life. 

LocHES.     And  I  shall  be  acquitted. 

Doctor.  Yes ;  but  after  the  public  narration  of  all 
your  troubles.  The  scandal  and  the  misfortune  will  be 
so  much  the  greater,  that  is  all.  And  how  do  you  know 
that  the  day  after  your  acquittal  you  will  not  find  your- 
self before  another  and  less  lenient  judge.'*  When  your 
daughter,  realizing  that  you  have  rendered  her  unhappi- 
ness  irreparable,  and  seized  with  pity  for  your  victim, 
demands  by  what  right  you  have  killed  the  father  of  her 
child,  what  will  you  say?  What  will  you  say  when  that 
child  one  day  asks  the  same  question? 

LocHES  [speaking  before  the  other  has  done^  Then 
what  can  I  do? 

Doctor  [immediately]     Forgive. 
A  silence. 


66  Damaged  Goods  Act  III 

LocHES  l^without  energy'\     Never. 

Doctor.  Are  you  quite  sure  that  you  have  the  right 
to  be  so  inflexible?  Was  it  not  within  your  power  at  a 
certain  moment  to  spare  your  daughter  the  possibility  of 
this  misery? 

LocHES.  Within  my  power !  Do  you  imply  that  I  am 
responsible  ? 

Doctor.  Yes;  I  do.  When  the  marriage  was  pro- 
posed you  doubtless  made  inquiries  concerning  your 
future  son-in-law's  income ;  you  investigated  his  securi- 
ties ;  you  satisfied  yourself  as  to  his  character.  You 
only  omitted  one  point,  but  it  was  the  most  important 
of  all:   you  made  no  inquiries  concerning  his  health. 

LoCHES.      No. 

Doctor.    And  why? 

LocHES.    Because  it  is  not  the  custom. 

Doctor.     Well,  it  ought  to  be  made  the  custom.     Be- 
fore giving  his  daughter  in  marriage  a  father  ought  to 
take  as  much  care  with  regard  to  her  husband  as  a  house 
of  business  takes  in  engaging  an  employee. 
L.  LocHES.     You  are  right;    a  law  should  be  passed. 

Doctor.  No,  no !  We  want  no  new  laws :  there  are 
too  many  already.  All  that  is  needed  is  for  people  to 
understand  the  nature  of  this  disease  rather  better.  It 
would  soon  become  the  custom  for  a  man  who  proposed 
for  a  girl's  hand  to  add  to  the  other  things  for  which 
he  is  asked  a  medical  statement  of  bodily  fitness,  which 
would  make  it  certain  that  he  did  not  bring  this  plague 
into  the  family  with  him.  It  would  be  perfectly  simple. 
Once  it  was  the  custom,  the  man  would  go  to  his  doctor 
for  a  certificate  of  health  before  he  could  sign  the  regis- 
ter, just  as  now,  before  he  can  be  married  in  church,  he 
goes  to  his  priest  for  a  certificate  that  he  has  confessed. 
As  things  are,  before  a  marriage  is  concluded  the  family 
lawyers  meet  to  discuss  matters :  a  meeting  between  the 
two  doctors  would  be  at  least  as  useful  and  would  pre- 


Act  III  Damaged  Goods  67 

vent  many  misfortunes.  Your  inquiry,  you  see,  was  in- 
complete. Your  daughter  might  well  ask  you,  who  are 
a  man  and  a  father,  and  ought  to  know  these  things,  why 
you  did  not  take  as  much  trouble  about  her  health  as 
about  her  fortune.     I  tell  you  that  you  must  forgive. 

LocHES.     Never! 

Doctor.  Well,  there  is  one  last  argument  which, 
since  I  must,  I  will  put  to  you.  Are  you  yourself  with- 
out sin,  that  you  are  so  relentless  to  others.'' 

LocHES.     I  have  never  had  any  shameful  disease,  sir! 

Doctor.  I  was  not  asking  you  that.  I  was  asking 
you  if  you  had  never  exposed  yourself  to  catching  one. 
[He  pauses.  Loches  does  not  reply]  Ah,  you  see! 
Then  it  is  not  virtue  that  has  saved  you ;  it  is  luck.  Few 
things  exasperate  me  more  than  that  term  "  shameful 
disease,"  which  you  used  just  now.  This  disease  is  like 
all  other  diseases:  it  is  one  of  our  afflictions.  There  is 
no  shame  in  being  wretched  —  even  if  one  deserves  to 
be  so.  [Hotly]  Come,  come,  let  us  have  a  little  plain 
speaking !  I  should  like  to  know  how  many  of  these 
rigid  moralists,  who  are  so  choked  with  their  middle- 
class  prudery  that  they  dare  not  mention  the  name 
syphilis,  or  when  they  bring  themselves  to  speak  of  it 
do  so  with  expressions  of  every  sort  of  disgust,  and  treat 
its  victims  as  criminals,  have  never  run  the  risk  of  con- 
tracting it  themselves?  It  is  those  alone  who  have  the 
right  to  talk.  How  many  do  you  think  there  are?  Four 
out  of  a  thousand?  Well,  leave  those  four  aside:  be- 
tween all  the  rest  and  those  who  catch  the  disease  there 
is  no  difference  but  chance.  [Bursting  out]  And  by 
heavens,  those  who  escape  won't  get  much  sympathy 
from  me:  the  others  at  least  have  paid  their  fine  of 
suffering  and  remorse,  while  they  have  gone  scot-free ! 
[Recovering  himself]  Let 's  have  done,  if  you  please, 
once  for  all  with  this  sort  of  hypocrisy.  Your  son-in- 
law,  like  yourself  and  like  the  immense  majority  of  men. 


68  Damaged  Goods  Act  III 

has  had  mistresses  before  he  married.  He  has  had  the 
ill-luck  to  catch  syphilis,  and  married  supposing  that 
the  disease  was  no  longer  dangerous  when  in  fact  it  still 
was.  It  is  a  misfortune  that  we  must  do  our  best  to 
remedy,  and  not  to  aggravate.  Perhaps  in  your  youth 
you  deserved  what  he  has  got  even  more  than  he;  at  any 
rate  your  position  towards  him  is  as  that  of  the  culprit 
who  has  escaped  punishment  towards  his  less  fortunate 
comrade.  That  is  a  reflection  that  should,  I  think,  touch 
you. 

LocHES.     You  put  it  in  such  a  way  — 

Doctor.     Am  I  not  right? 

LocHES.  Perhaps ;  but  I  can't  tell  my  daughter  all 
this  to  persuade  her  to  return  to  her  husband. 

Doctor.     There  are  other  arguments  that  you  can  use. 

LocHES.     What,  then,  good  heavens? 

Doctor.  Any  number.  You  can  tell  her  that  a  sep- 
aration will  be  a  calamity  for  all  parties  and  that  her 
husband  is  the  only  person  interested  in  helloing  her  at 
any  price  to  save  her  child.  You  can  tell  her  that  out 
of  the  ruins  of  her  first  happiness  she  can  construct  a 
life  of  solid  affection  that  will  have  every  chance  of 
being  lasting  and  most  sincerely  enviable.  There  is 
much  truth  in  the  saying  that  reformed  rakes  make  the 
best  husbands.  Take  j^our  son-in-law.  If  your  daughter 
consents  to  forgive  and  forget,  he  will  not  only  respect 
her,  he  will  be  eternally  grateful.  You  can  tell  her  all 
this  and  you  will  find  much  else  to  say  besides.  As  for 
the  future,  we  will  make  sure  that  when  they  are  re- 
united their  next  child  shall  be  healthy  and  vigorous. 

LocHES.     Is  that  possible? 

Doctor.  Yes,  yes !  A  thousand  times  yes !  I  have 
one  thing  that  I  always  tell  my  patients:  if  I  could  I 
would  paste  it  up  at  every  street  corner.  "  Syphilis  is 
like  a  woman  M-hose  temper  is  roused  by  the  feeling  that 
her  power  is  disdained.     It  is  terrible  only  to  those  who 


Act  III  Damaged  Goods  69 

think  it  insignificant,  not  to  those  who  know  its  dangers." 
Repeat  that  to  your  daughter.  Give  her  back  to  her  hus- 
band, —  she  has  nothing  more  to  fear  from  him,  —  and 
in  two  years'  time  I  guarantee  that  you  will  be  a  happy 
grandfather. 

LocHES.  Thank  you,  doctor.  I  do  not  know  if  I  can 
ever  forget.  But  you  have  made  me  so  uneasy  on  the 
score  of  these  responsibilities  that  I  have  ignored  and 
given  me  back  so  much  hope,  that  I  will  promise  you  to 
do  nothing  rash.  If  my  poor  child  can,  after  a  time, 
bring  herself  to  forgive  her  husband,  I  shall  not  stand  in 
the  way. 

Doctor.  Good !  But  if  you  have  another  daughter, 
take  care  not  to  make  the  same  mistake  that  you  made 
over  the  marriage  of  your  first. 

LocHES.     How  was  I  to  know? 

Doctor.  Ah,  there  it  is.  You  did  n't  know  !  You  are 
a  father  and  you  did  n't  know !  You  are  a  deputy  and 
have  the  honor  and  the  burden  of  making  laws  for  us, 
and  you  did  n't  know  !  You  did  n't  know  about  syphilis, 
just  as  you  probably  do  not  know  about  alcoholism  and 
tuberculosis. 

LocHES.     Really,  I  — 

Doctor.  Well,  if  you  like  I  will  except  you.  But 
there  are  five  hundred  others,  are  there  not,  who  sit  in 
the  Chamber  and  style  themselves  Representatives  of  the 
people.''  Here  are  the  three  unspeakable  gods  to  whom 
every  day  thousands  of  human  sacrifices  are  offered  up. 
What  single  hour  do  your  colleagues  find  for  the  organi- 
zation of  our  forces  against  these  insatiable  monsters? 
Take  alcoholism.  The  manufacture  of  poisonous  liquors 
should  be  prohibited  and  the  number  of  licences  cut 
down.  But  we  are  afraid  of  the  power  of  the  great  dis- 
tillers and  of  the  voting  strength  of  the  trade:  conse- 
quently we  deplore  the  immorality  of  the  working  classes 
and    quiet    our    conscience    by    writing    pamphlets    and 


70  Damaged  Goods  Act  III 

preaching  sermons.  Pah!  Then  take  tuberculosis: 
everyone  knows  that  the  real  remedy  is  to  pay  sufficient 
wages  and  have  insanitary  workmen's  dwellings  knocked 
down.  But  no  one  will  do  it,  although  the  working  class 
is  the  most  useful  we  have  as  well  as  the  worst  rewarded. 
Instead,  workmen  are  recommended  not  to  spit.  Ad- 
mirable, is  n't  it?  Finally,  syphilis.  Why  do  you  not 
concern  yourselves  with  that?  You  create  offices  of  state 
for  all  sorts  of  things:  why  do  you  not  one  day  set 
about  creating  an  office  of  public  health? 

LocHES.  My  dear  doctor,  you  are  falling  into  the 
common  French  mistake  of  attributing  all  the  ills  in  the 
world  to  the  government.  In  this  case  it  is  for  you  to 
show  us  the  way.  These  are  matters  for  scientific  ex- 
perts. You  must  begin  by  pointing  out  the  necessary 
measures,  and  then  — 

Doctor.  And  then  —  what?  Ha!  It  is  fifteen 
years  since  a  scheme  of  this  kind,  worked  out  and  ap- 
proved unanimously  by  the  Academy  of  Medicine,  was 
submitted  to  the  proper  authorities.  Since  that  day  it 
has  never  been  heard  of  again. 

LocHES.  Then  you  think  that  there  really  are  meas- 
ures to  be  taken? 

Doctor.  You  shall  answer  that  question  yourself.  I 
must  tell  you  that  when  I  received  your  card  yesterday 
I  imagined  that  it  was  in  your  public  capacity  that  you 
were  about  to  interest  yourself  in  these  matters.  Con- 
sequently, after  naming  the  hour  of  your  visit,  I  told  off 
two  of  my  hospital  patients  to  show  to  you.  You  need 
not  be  alarmed.  I  shall  not  shock  your  nerves.  To 
outward  appearance  they  have  nothing  the  matter  with 
them.  They  are  not  bad  cases;  they  are  simply  the 
damaged  goods  of  our  great  human  cargo.  I  merely 
wished  to  give  you  food  for  reflection,  not  a  lesson  in 
pathology.  You  came  on  another  matter.  So  much  the 
worse  for  you.     I  have  you  and  I  shall  not  let  you  go. 


Act  III  Damaged  Goods  71 

[A  slight  pause].  I  will  ask  you,  therefore,  to  raise 
your  mind  above  your  personal  sorrow  and  to  conceive 
in  the  mass  the  thousands  of  beings  who  suffer  from 
similar  causes.  Thousands,  mark  you,  from  every  rank 
of  society.  The  disease  jumps  from  the  hovel  into  the 
home,  frequently  with  few  intermediate  steps ;  so  that 
to  cleanse  the  gutter,  where  preventive  measures  can  be 
taken,  means  practically  to  safeguard  the  family  life. 
Our  greatest  enemy  of  all,  as  you  shall  see  for  yourself, 
is  ignorance.  Ignorance,  I  repeat.  The  refrain  is 
always  the  same :  "  I  did  n't  know."  Patients,  whom 
we  might  have  saved  had  they  come  in  time,  come  too 
late,  in  a  desperate  condition,  and  after  having  spread 
the  evil  far  and  wide.  And  why?  "I  didn't  know." 
[Going  towards  the  door]  What  can  we  do.''  We  can't 
hunt  them  out  from  the  highways  and  hedges.  [To  a 
woman  in  the  passage]  Come  in,  please.  [The  woman 
enters.  She  is  of  the  working  class.  The  doctor  turns 
again  to  Loches]  Here  is  a  case.  This  woman  is  very 
seriously  ill.  I  have  told  her  so,  and  I  told  her  to  come 
here  once  a  week.     [To  the  woman]     Is  that  so.^ 

Woman.     Yes,  sir. 

Doctor  [angrily]  And  how  long  is  it  since  you  came 
last.? 

Woman.     Three  months. 

Doctor.  Three  months !  How  do  you  suppose  I  can 
cure  you  like  that.''  It  is  hopeless,  do  you  hear,  hopeless ! 
Well,  why  did  n't  you  come .''  Don't  you  know  that  you 
have  a  very  serious  disease.'' 

Woman.  Oh,  yes,  sir.  I  know  it  is.  My  husband 
died  of  it. 

Doctor  [more  gently]     Your  husband  died  of  it.f* 

Woman.     Yes,  sir. 

Doctor.     Did  he  not  go  to  the  doctor.'' 

Woman.     No,  sir. 

Doctor.    And  is  n't  that  a  warning  to  you? 


72  Damaged  Goods  Act  III 

Woman.  Oh,  sir,  I  'd  come  as  often  as  you  told  me 
to,  only  I  can't  afford  it. 

Doctor.     How  do  you  mean,  you  can't  afford  it.^ 

LocHES.  The  consultations  are  gratis,  are  they 
not.? 

Woman.  Yes,  sir.  But  they  're  during  working  hours, 
and  then,  it 's  a  long  way  to  come.  One  has  to  wait  one's 
turn  with  all  the  others,  and  sometimes  it  takes  the  best 
part  of  the  day,  and  I  'm  afraid  of  losing  my  place  if  I 
stop  away  so  much.  So  I  wait  till  I  can't  help  coming 
again.     And  then  — 

Doctor.    Well.'* 

Woman.  Oh,  it 's  nothing,  sir.  You  're  too  kind  to 
me. 

Doctor.    Go  on,  go  on. 

Woman.  I  know  I  ought  n't  to  mind,  but  I  have  n't 
always  been  so  poor.  We  were  well  off  before  my  hus- 
band fell  ill,  and  I  've  always  lived  by  my  own  work. 
It 's  not  as  it  is  for  a  woman  who  has  n't  any  self-respect. 
I  know  it 's  wrong,  but  having  to  wait  like  that  with 
everyone  else  and  to  tell  all  about  myself  before  every- 
one —  I  know  I  'm  wrong,  but  it 's  hard  all  the  same,  it 's 
very  hard. 

Doctor.  Poor  woman  !  [A  pause.  Then  very  gently'\ 
So  it  was  from  your  husband  that  you  caught  this  disease? 

Woman.  Yes,  sir.  We  used  to  live  in  the  country  and 
then  my  husband  caught  it  and  went  half  mad.  He 
did  n't  know  what  he  was  doing,  and  used  to  order  all 
kinds  of  things  we  could  n't  pay  for. 

Doctor.     Why  did  he  not  get  himself  looked  after? 

Woman.  He  did  n't  know.  We  were  sold  up  and 
came  to  Paris ;  we  had  n't  any  more  money.  Then  he 
went  to  the  hospital. 

Doctor.     Well? 

Woman.  He  got  looked  after  there,  but  they  Would  n't 
give  him  any  medicines. 


Act  III  Damaged  Goods  73 

Doctor.     How  was  that? 

Woman.  Because  we  had  only  been  three  months  in 
Paris.  They  only  give  you  the  medicines  free  if  you 
have  lived  here  six  months. 

LocHEs.     Is  that  so? 

Doctor.     Yes,  that  is  the  rule. 

Woman.     You  see  it  is  n't  our  fault. 

Doctor.     You  have  no  children,  have  you? 

Woman.     I  could  n't  ever  bring  one  to  birth,  sir.     My 
husband  was  taken  at  the  very  beginning  of  our  marriage, 
while  he  was  doing  his  time  as  a  reservist.     There  are 
women  that  hang  about  the  barracks. 
A  silence. 

Doctor.  Ah !  Well,  this  is  my  private  address ;  you 
come  to  see  me  there  every  Sunday  morning.  \^At  the 
door  he  slips  a  piece  of  money  into  her  hand.  Roughly^ 
There,  just  take  that  and  run  along.  What's  that? 
Tut,  tut !  Nonsense  !  Nonsense  !  I  have  n't  time  to 
listen  to  you.  Run  along,  now.  [He  pushes  her  out.  To 
someone  who  is  invisible  to  the  audience]  What  can  I 
do  for  you? 

Man  [outside]  I  am  the  father  of  the  young  man  you 
saw  this  morning.  I  asked  leave  to  speak  to  you  after 
the  consultation  was  over. 

Doctor.  Ah,  yes,  just  so,  I  recognize  you.  Your  son 
is  at  college,  is  n't  he  ? 

Man  [in  the  doorway]     Yes,  sir. 

Doctor.  Come  in,  come  in.  You  can  talk  before  this 
gentleman. 

Man  [entering]  You  know,  sir,  the  disaster  that  has 
befallen  us.  My  son  is  eighteen;  as  the  result  of  this 
disease  he  is  half  paralyzed.  We  are  small  trades- 
people ;  we  have  regularly  bled  ourselves  in  order  to 
send  him  to  college,  and  now  —  I  only  wish  the  same 
thing  may  n't  happen  to  others.  It  was  at  the  very 
college  gates  that  my  poor  boy  was  got  hold  of  by  one 


74  Damaged  Goods  Act  III 

of  these  women.  Is  it  right,  sir,  that  that  should  be  al- 
lowed ?  Are  n't  there  enough  police  to  prevent  children  of 
fifteen  from  being  seduced  like  that?   I  ask,  is  it  right? 

Doctor.    No. 

Man.    Why  don't  they  stop  it,  then? 

Doctor.     I  don't  know. 

Man.  Look  at  my  son.  He  'd  be  better  in  his  grave. 
He  was  such  a  good-looking  chap.  We  were  that 
proud  of  him. 

Doctor.  Never  despair.  We  '11  do  our  best  to  cure 
him.  [Sadly]  But  why  did  you  wait  so  long  before 
bringing  him  to  me? 

Man.  How  was  I  to  know  what  he  had?  He  was 
afraid  to  tell  me ;  so  he  let  the  thing  go  on.  Then  when 
he  felt  he  was  really  bad  with  it,  he  went,  without  letting 
me  know,  to  quacks,  who  robbed  him  without  curing  him. 
Ah,  that  too ;  is  that  right  ?  What 's  the  government 
about  that  it  allows  that?  Isn't  that  more  important 
than  what  they  spend  their  time  over? 

Doctor.  You  are  right.  Their  only  excuse  is  that 
they  do  not  know.  You  must  take  courage.  We  have 
cured  worse  cases  than  your  son's.  As  for  the  others, 
perhaps  some  day  they  will  have  a  little  attention  paid 
them.  [He  goes  with  the  man  to  the  door.  Turning  to 
Loches]  You  see,  the  true  remedy  lies  in  a  change  of 
our  ways.  Syphilis  must  cease  to  be  treated  like  a  mys- 
terious evil  the  very  name  of  which  cannot  be  pro- 
nounced. The  ignorance  in  which  the  public  is  kept  of 
the  real  nature  and  of  the  consequences  of  this  disease 
helps  to  aggravate  and  to  spread  it.  Generally  it  is  con- 
tracted because  "  I  did  n't  know  " ;  it  becomes  danger- 
ous for  want  of  proper  care  because  "  I  did  n't  know  " ; 
it  is  passed  on  from  person  to  person  because  "  I  did  n't 
know."  People  ought  to  know.  Young  men  ought  to  be 
taught  the  responsibilities  they  assume  and  the  mis- 
fortunes they  may  bring  on  themselves. 


Act  III  Damaged  Goods  75 

LocHES.  At  the  same  time  these  things  camiot  be 
taught  to  children  at  school. 

Doctor.    Why  not,  pray.'' 

LocHEs.  There  are  curiosities  which  it  would  be  im- 
prudent to  arouse. 

Doctor  [hotly]  So  you  think  that  by  ignoring  those 
curiosities  you  stifle  them?  Why,  every  boy  and  girl 
who  has  been  to  a  boarding  school  or  through  college 
knows  you  do  not !  So  far  from  stifling  them,  you  drive 
them  to  satisfy  themselves  in  secret  by  any  vile  means 
they  can.  There  is  nothing  immoral  in  the  act  that  re- 
produces life  by  the  means  of  love.  But  for  the  benefit 
of  our  children  we  organize  round  about  it  a  gigantic 
conspiracy  of  silence.  A  respectable  man  will  take  his 
son  and  daughter  to  one  of  these  grand  music  halls,  where 
they  will  hear  things  of  the  most  loathsome  description; 
but  he  won't  let  them  hear  a  word  spoken  seriously  on 
the  subject  of  the  great  act  of  love.  No,  no  !  Not  a  word 
about  that  without  blushing :  only,  as  many  barrack  room 
jokes,  as  many  of  the  foulest  music  hall  suggestions  as 
you  like  !  Pornography,  as  much  as  you  please :  science, 
never !  That  is  what  we  ought  to  change.  The  mystery 
and  humbug  in  which  physical  facts  are  enveloped  ought 
to  be  swept  away  and  young  men  be  given  some  pride  in 
the  creative  power  with  which  each  one  of  us  is  endowed. 
They  ought  to  be  made  to  understand  that  the  future  of 
the  race  is  in  their  hands  and  to  be  taught  to  transmit 
the  great  heritage  they  have  received  from  their  ancestors 
intact  with  all  its  possibilities  to  their  descendants. 

LocHEs.  Ah,  but  we  should  go  beyond  that !  I  realize 
now  that  what  is  needed  is  to  attack  this  evil  at  its  source 
and  to  suppress  prostitution.  We  ought  to  hound  out 
these  vile  women  who  poison  the  very  life  of  society. 

Doctor.  You  forget  that  they  themselves  have  first 
been  poisoned.  I  am  going  to  show  you  one  of  them. 
I  warn  you,  not  that  it  matters  much,  that  she  won't 


76  Damaged  Goods  Act  III 

express  herself  like  a  duchess.  I  can  make  her  talk  by 
playing  on  her  vanity:    she  wants  to  be  a  ballet-dancer. 

He  opens  the  door  and  admits  a  pretty  girl  of  some 
twenty  years:   she  is  very  gay  and  cheerful. 

Doctor.  Getting  on  all  right?  [Without  rvaiting  for 
an  answer]     You  still  want  to  go  on  the  stage^  don't  you.'' 

Girl.      Rather. 

Doctor.  Well,  this  gentleman  's  a  friend  of  the  man- 
ager of  the  opera.  He  can  give  you  a  line  to  him;  will 
that  do.'' 

Girl.  Why,  of  course.  But  if  they  want  character, 
I  'm  done,  you  know. 

Doctor.  They  won't.  You  just  tell  the  gentleman 
about  yourself ;  what  you  want  to  do  and  what  you  've 
done.     Talk  to  him  a  bit. 

Girl.  My  parents  were  people  of  good  position. 
They  sent  me  to  a  boarding  school  — 

Doctor  [interrupting]  You  need  n't  tell  him  all  that; 
he  won't  believe  a  word  of  it. 

Girl.  Eh?  Well,  but  if  I  tell  him  the  truth,  it's 
all  up  with  me. 

Doctor.  No,  no;  he  won't  mind.  Now  then,  you 
came  to  Paris  — 

Girl.     Yes. 

Doctor.     You  got  a  place  as  maid-servant? 

Girl.     Well,  yes. 

Doctor.     How  old  were  you  then? 

Girl.     Why,  I  was  turned  seventeen. 

Doctor.     And  then  you  had  a  baby? 

Girl  [astonished  at  the  question]  Of  course  I  did; 
next  year. 

Doctor.     Well,  who  was  its  father? 

Girl  [treating  it  as  a  matter  of  course]  Why,  it  was 
my  master,  of  course. 

Doctor.  Go  on,  go  on.  Tell  us  about  it.  Your  mis- 
tress found  out.     What  happened  then? 


Act  III  Damaged  Goods  77 

Girl  [in  the  same  tone]  She  sent  me  packing.  I  'd 
have  done  the  same,  if  I  'd  been  her. 

Doctor.  Go  on;  what  are  you  stopping  for?  Talk 
away.  The  gentleman  's  from  the  country ;  he  does  n't 
understand  about  these  things. 

Girl  [gaily]  Right  oh!  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it. 
One  night  the  boss  comes  up  to  my  room  in  his  socks 
and  says:     "  If  you  shriek  out,  off  you  go !  "     Then  — 

Doctor.     No,  no.     Begin  after  you  lost  your  place. 

Girl.    All  right,  if  you  think  he  '11  think  it  funny. 

Doctor.  Never  mind  that.  Say  what  you  're  doing 
now. 

Girl.    Why,  I  come  here  every  day. 

Doctor.     But  before  you  come  here? 

Girl.    Oh,  I  do  my  five  hours  on  the  streets. 

Doctor.  Well,  how's  that?  The  gentleman's  from 
the  country,  I  tell  you.    He  wants  to  know.    Go  on. 

Girl.  There  now,  I  would  n't  have  thought  there  was 
anyone  did  n't  know  that.  Why,  I  rig  myself  out  as  a 
work-girl,  with  a  little  bag  on  my  arm  —  they  make  togs 
special  for  that,  y'  know  —  and  then  I  trot  along  by  the 
shop  windows.  Pretty  hard  work,  too,  'cause  to  do  it  real 
well  you  have  to  walk  fast.  Then  I  stops  in  front  of  some 
shop  or  other.  Nine  times  out  of  ten  that  does  the  trick. 
It  just  makes  me  laugh,  I  tell  you,  but  you  'd  think  all 
the  men  had  learnt  what  to  say  out  of  a  book.  There  's 
only  two  things  they  say,  that 's  all.  It 's  either:  "  You 
walk  very  fast  "  or  else:  "  Are  n't  you  afraid,  all  alone?  " 
One  knows  what  that  means,  eh  ?  Or  else  I  do  the 
"  young  widow  "  fake.  You  've  got  to  go  a  bit  fast  like 
that,  too.  I  don't  know  why,  but  it  makes  'em  catch  on. 
They  find  out  precious  soon  I  'm  not  a  young  widow,  but 
that  doesn't  make  any  odds.  [Seriously]  There 're 
things  like  that  I  don't  understand. 

Doctor.  What  sort  are  they,  then?  Shopwalkers, 
commercial  travellers? 


78  Damaged  Goods  Act  III 

Girl.    I  like  that !    Why,  I  only  take  real  gentlemen. 

Doctor.    They  say  that 's  what  they  are. 

Girl.  Oh,  I  can  see  well  enough.  Besides,  a  whole  lot 
of  'em  have  orders  on.  That  makes  me  laugh,  too.  When 
they  meet  you,  they  've  got  their  little  bits  of  ribbon  stuck 
in  their  buttonhole.  Then  they  follow  you  and  they 
have  n't  anything.  I  wanted  to  find  out,  so  I  looked  over 
my  shoulder  in  a  glass  and  saw  my  man  snap  the  ribbon 
out  with  his  finger  and  thumb  just  as  you  do  when  you  're 
shelling  peas.     You  know  ? 

Doctor.  Yes;  I  know.  Tell  us  about  your  child. 
What  became  of  it? 

Girl.    Oh,  I  left  it  at  that  place  in  the  Rue  Denfer. 

Doctor  [to  Loches]     The  foundlings'  hospital. 

LocHES.     Did  you  not  mind  doing  that.'' 

Girl.  It  was  better  than  dragging  it  about  with  me  to 
starve. 

LocHES.     Still,  it  was  your  child. 

Girl.  Well,  what  about  its  father?  It  was  his  child, 
too,  was  n't  it  ?  See  here,  I  'm  not  going  to  talk  about 
that  again.  Anyway,  just  tell  me  what  I  could  have 
done,  you  two  there.  Put  it  out  to  nurse?  Well,  of 
course,  I  would  have,  if  I  'd  been  sure  of  having  the 
money  for  it.  But  then  I  wanted  to  get  another  place; 
and  how  was  I  to  pay  for  nursing  it  with  the  twenty- 
five  or  thirty  francs  a  month  I  should  have  got,  eh?  If 
I  wanted  to  keep  straight,  I  could  n't  keep  the  kid.     See? 

LocHES.     It 's  too  horrible. 

The  doctor  stops  him  rvith  a  gesture. 

Girl  [^angrily']  It's  just  as  I  tell  you.  What  else 
could  I  have  done,  eh?  If  you  'd  been  in  my  place  you  'd 
have  done  just  the  same.  {Quieting  down']  See  here, 
what 's  the  good  of  making  a  fuss  about  it?  You  '11  say: 
"  But  you  have  n't  been  living  straight."  No  more  I 
have,  but  how  could  I  help  it  ?  I  could  n't  stay  in  my 
places;  and  then,  when  you  're  hungry  and  a  jolly  young 


Act  III  Damaged  Goods  79 

chap  offers  you.  a  dinner,  my  word,  I  'd  like  to  see  the 
girl  who  'd  say  no.  I  never  learnt  any  trade,  you  see. 
So  that  the  end  of  it  all  is  that  I  found  myself  in  St. 
Lazare  because  I  was  ill.  That 's  pretty  low  down,  too. 
These  beastly  men  give  you  their  foul  diseases  and  it 's 
me  they  stick  in  prison.     It 's  a  bit  thick,  that  is. 

Doctor.  You  gave  them  as  good  as  you  got,  did  n't 
you,  though? 

Girl  [gaily]  Oh,  I  had  my  tit  for  tat!  [To  Laches'] 
I  suppose  you  'd  like  to  have  that,  too  ?  Before  they 
carted  me  off  there,  the  day  I  found  out  I  was  in  for  it, 
I  was  going  home  in  a  pretty  temper  when  who  do  you 
think  I  met  in  the  street  but  my  old  boss  !  I  was  that 
glad  to  see  him !  Now,  thinks  I  to  myself,  you  're  going 
to  pay  me  what  you  owe  me  —  with  interest,  too  !  I  just 
winked  at  him :  oh,  it  did  n't  take  long,  I  can  tell  you. 
[Tragically]  Then  when  I  left  him,  I  don't  know  what 
came  over  me  —  I  felt  half  mad.  I  took  on  everyone  I 
could,  for  anything  or  for  nothing !  As  many  as  I  could, 
aU  the  youngest  and  the  best  looking  —  well,  I  only  gave 
'em  back  what  they  gave  me !  Now  somehow  I  don't 
care  any  more :  where  's  the  use  in  pulling  long  faces 
about  things  ?  It  only  makes  me  laugh.  Other  women, 
they  do  just  the  same;  but  then  they  do  it  for  their 
bread  and  butter,  d'  ye  see.  A  girl  must  live  even  if 
she  is  ill,  eh.''  [A  pause]  Well,  you'll  give  my  name 
to  the  chap  at  the  theatre,  won't  you .''  The  doc  here  '11 
tell  you  my  address. 

LocHES.     I  promise  you  I  will. 

Girl.     Thank  ye,  sir. 

She  goes  out. 

Doctor,  Was  I  not  right  to  keep  that  confession  for 
the  end?  This  poor  girl  is  typical.  The  whole  problem 
is  summed  up  in  her:  she  is  at  once  the  product  and  the 
cause.  We  set  the  ball  rolling,  others  keep  it  up,  and  it 
runs  back  to  bruise  our  own  shins.     I  have  nothing  more 


80  Damaged  Goods  Act  III 


"to 


to  say.  ]_He  shaJces  hands  with  Loches  as  he  conducts 
him  to  the  door,  and  adds  in  a  lighter  tone]  But  if  you 
give  a  thought  or  two  to  what  you  have  just  seen  when 
you  are  sitting  in  the  Chamber,  we  shall  not  have  wasted 
our  time. 


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